


In the Aftermath

by ReginaCorda



Series: Dusk of Summer [4]
Category: Fleurmione - Fandom, Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Accidental overdose, Anxiety, Dealing with war, Depression, Emotional, F/F, I swear the ending will be happy, Lesbian, PTSD, Therapy, just give it some time, multi-chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2018-04-13 22:26:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4539792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReginaCorda/pseuds/ReginaCorda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate ending to Thy Kingdom Come. Hermione and Fleur learn how to cope with survival and the guilt that come with it, along with the demons of their nightmares and worst memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back again, after a great deal of thought, considering the circumstances. I have decided that the story felt incomplete, since the idea for the alternate had taken root long before I'd even started writing Kingdom. So, here's the first part. It will have multiple chapters and I cannot guarantee a schedule, since work is ridiculous. Anyway, though this will have a happy ending, it won't always be happy. It will demonstrate living after tragedy, learning how to live with survival and what was lost, and that's not always happy so bear with me. This piece picks up right as Hermione dies in the original, so a lot will appear to be the same. I hope to hear from you, and I hope you like this first piece.

It was in that moment that Fleur saw into another universe. She watched breathless as the ray of green light stuck Hermione in the chest, as she fell backwards, as blood trickled from her skull upon impact with the stone beneath her. She watched her die. She felt her brain lose its intellect, she felt her instinct swallow her whole as the primitive Veela inside her took sovereignty over her every act. She felt the better half of herself that was Hermione rip itself away, leaving half a bloody, mangled, dead soul behind. She felt true emptiness, nothing compared to the half-life she lived when she’d thought Hermione no longer loved her. She felt death settle in her heart, she felt the organ’s stuttering, desperate, stubborn fight against the inevitable end.

But this was not that universe.

She did not know if it was the Veela’s half of Hermione’s soul rearing within her, or if it was the spirit of Godric Gryffindor himself, but before the curse could touch her, she lifted her wand, and a powerful shield spell absorbed the lethal attack. With a quick circle of her wrist, she sent the spell back to its maker, where he fell as she would have.

Fleur didn’t realize she’d started running until she nearly bowled Hermione over. She was cold, her blood frozen in her veins, her soul acutely aware that somewhere in the stars above, perhaps at the depths of a black hole, perhaps even behind a mirror, Hermione lay dead on the stone.

But this was not that universe.

She had to keep reminding herself, had to remain planted in the here and now until the giants were contained, until the threat was completely slain before she could begin pondering just what she’d felt.

It took ten dragons and twenty wizards to subdue the giants. Someone would have to either relocate or dispose of them, but neither Fleur nor Hermione let their concerns rest with the thought. Instead, they treated the wounded, resisted the urge to sleep, reassured each other that they were in fact safe, that they were in fact alive. The brush with death left a slimy residue on Fleur’s skin. Goosebumps broke across her body with the thought of what hadn’t happened, but had been so close to manifesting.

Shamin joined them as dawn broke. All the fallen warriors of Hogwarts lay resting in their castle, awaiting their wake. The two sat on the ground beside Alkaia’s body, obsidian scales reflecting the orange light as it fell on them. The Horntail made a soft whiny noise, and nuzzled Fleur gently. Hermione laid her forehead on his cheek, twisting in her position in the Veela’s arms.

“Why did we have to fight?” she asked softly. “Why is the right thing always so fucking hard?”

Fleur drew a breath. “Because millions of others would have died if we hadn’t.”

Hermione slowly shook her head, her eyes screwed shut. “Fred… Tonks… Lupin… Alkaia. The nameless, clueless Muggles. Even the Death Eaters. So much was lost, Fleur… We took so much…”

Fleur drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We did.” She acknowledged. “We took a lot. And that’s the price of living, isn’t it? A sad, horrible, unfair price.”

“Survivor’s guilt,” she scoffed.

“We did all we could,” Fleur murmured. “I feel… I actually feel remorse for acting the way I did as the Phantom. But who can tell me if I hadn’t that our losses would be tenfold? I took lives, just as you did. I was brutal. Barbaric, even. But I did it to protect those I love because if I didn’t, we’d all be strewn about the ground, and Voldemort would sit upon his throne. He lied to everyone, and anyone who thought he’d be so kind as to let them join him by surrendering was under a horrible disillusion. He would have killed them first because he did not value cowardice despite the face he secreted it. Then he would come for the impure blood. Mine and yours. Halves and quarters. Probably even eighths and sixteenths, if there are any. Or we would have been made slaves like the Muggles. The Veela would be wiped out, since we would have fought to the death before being enslaved. Centaurs, too.

“So we took their power from them by any means we had. And though there will be consequences for those actions that will stay with us the rest of our lives, at least there is a world left to rebuild. At least we have a future.”

Hermione sniffled before she looked back at Alkaia. “I wish I had spent more time with her.”

“I do too, but she loved you. She knew why you had to go away. She knew better than I did for a long time.”

Hermione was silent for a time, unwilling to remember such times.

“Is there a rite we have for her? Something the Veela do?”

“There is, and we’ll have it in a few days. In the meantime, we’ll move her to the village, with all the others that fell and join them after the wake here. We have many respects to pay.”

The lioness closed her eyes, the lids heavy and swollen, and sighed heavily. She was exhausted, tired of crying, tired after being conscious for the better part of seventy-three hours, but so deathly afraid to sleep. She knew nightmares waited to take her, rested beneath the dark waters of her unconscious mind. She knew her body was running on fumes, that she would succumb to the need soon before it destroyed itself.

Wordlessly, Fleur pulled her to her feet, and led her into the castle. They found a spare bed in Gryffindor Tower, and reluctantly laid down. The curtains were tightly closed against the early morning light, and cast the room in a feeble, eerie glow.

Against the blonde’s chest, Hermione fought sleep. She willed her body to rest while she kept her mind active, desperate to stay awake. She lost the fight, however, and slumped limply against Fleur.

The Veela remained unyielding and wide-eyed above her. The same vision played on the backs of her eyelids with every blink. The green flash. The lioness’s fall. Her own crumbling, reverting, back to that primal creature she’d been before. Even now, memory proved strong as she felt her heart ache, felt her soul strain against what had been a very real near reality. She shivered against it, and tightened her hold.

She believed, truly, that the universes brushed, collided, at times. Every choice, every decision, every possible outcome explored by one universe or another, or several even. And she believed, truly, that she was dead in that neighboring universe. Squeezing her eyes shut, she drew a deep breath. _That universe doesn’t matter. The only one that matters is this one, and we have much to do in a short time._

She pressed her lips to Hermione’s forehead, and let out a shaking breath. She was _here._ Alive, if maimed and haunted, but alive with Hermione in her arms, warm and safe. Warm and safe while so many others lie cold and defeated in the floors below them. Friends, family, loved ones. The weight of so much loss settled heavily on Fleur, compressing her lungs. Survivor’s guilt filled the chasms of her soul and nearly broke her, but she resisted, calling upon some deep reserve of strength.

Hermione shifted in her sleep and rolled away from Fleur, while the Veela followed her seamlessly. Chest to back, Fleur held the world in her arms. She stared, unblinking, at the wall for so long her vision blurred, but sleep never took her. She lost track of time, acutely aware of every breath Hermione drew, and the jolt she gave upon realizing she’d fallen asleep. Her hands clutched Fleur’s under the blankets, her breathing shallow. Wordlessly, Fleur tucked her nose into Hermione’s neck.

“How long was I out?” she asked softly, looking at the window where the pink rays of early evening slipped through.

“I don’t know.”

“Did you sleep?”

“No.”

Hermione slowly drew a breath and said nothing else. A few House-Elves entered their chambers and offered them food that lodged in their throats without much hope of going down. Their stomachs coiled, protesting any attempt at eating; even tea was met with nausea.

They tried to visit Harry, but everyone they met told them he was still in his chambers resting, as they should be too. Though they were weary to attempt sleep, they lay down again anyways, tucked against one another. Eventually, Hermione succumbed to sleep again, her eyes swollen and raw against Fleur’s nightshirt, and the Veela kept a vigilant watch over her until she couldn’t tell if she was sleeping or if her eyes were closed. She knew she’d slept, however; each time she neared REM sleep she jolted awake.

Morning was both reluctant and eager to arrive. When it did, neither harbored any desire to rise and face the day. They didn’t want to see so many stretched out on the floor, didn’t want to see so many broken people crying over their lost loves, didn’t want to hear the stories of people who held no significance in their lives but meant the world to others, didn’t want to know about the void they left. But they deserved it. They deserved their tears and remembrance and sorrow. They deserved this small sacrifice in return for what they and their families gave. Their friends deserved it, too, though Hermione doubted Fred would have wanted anyone to see him lain out and defeated. 

It was with the utmost reluctance that they rose, dressed, and found temporary comfort in cups of hot coffee and tea. They stood with Harry in the Great Hall, sharing in his suffering as stranger after stranger approached, bearing tearful, whiskey-scented stories of their fallen brothers, sisters, sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, and friends. They tried their best of offer condolences, tried to answer their questions of why, but found that they understood less themselves each time they attempted. Their skin became ashen, their eyes sunk into their sockets, and when night fell, sleep eluded them still, though nightmares flashed with every blink.

They could smell death and decay. It wafted up through the rafters and reminded them with each breath where their friends lay. It set the stage for their waking nightmares and made their sleeping ones even more realistic. When the wake finally came, a sense of finality washed through them as they stood, hand in hand with friends and family. Envy soon followed, for they who now slept beneath the earth, they whose ashes would see more than their eyes had, no longer needed lose sleep or sanity for what was lost, they had no part to play in gathering up the rubble of the Wizarding world and piece it together again. Those left behind envied them for their rest, their blissful ignorance of what was to come, of medication and therapy and years of healing.

But, if nothing else, the rebuilding could serve as a tribute, a monument of their sacrifice. Yes, they did not lose sleep or sanity, but they lost the joys of life, of sun’s warmth, of children and growth, and only the living could decide which was worth more.

Fleur stood through the service unblinking, unseeing. She clung to Hermione’s hand, held her as she cried, choked back her own tears. The dead were lowered into the ground, and Harry made himself scarce.

They offered their condolences, and rejected the invitation for the lighting of the Death Eater’s funeral pyre. Other Veelas would be there to oversee the event, and they were far more capable without them. Upon returning to Asteria’s village, Hermione saw a second funeral pyre. It was easily twice as large as the Death Eater’s had been, and much more carefully constructed. Several enormous bodies could be seen, and from between dark scales of black, red and green, pale flesh of the deceased Veela lay at rest with their dragons.

The lioness drew a shaky breath, and willed her eyes closed. This was last respect she’d pay before she fled to Australia, before she’d begin the search for her parents. She’d been worn to bare threads for days now, and could feel her last dregs of resolve fading away. But Alkaia deserved a proper send-off, deserved her best.

After offering a sorrowful greeting, Asteria wasted no time in starting the rite. A branch was needed, and Hermione was sent out to collect it herself with strict instructions to take her time, since it was part of the rite itself.

So the lioness wandered, through the trees that had swallowed Fleur alive such a short time ago, the trees that held her as she climbed higher, the trees that watched as she grew from a child, to a woman, then burst into Veela.

She contemplated the true weight of her loss, the hollow cavity of her rib cage, and tried to see past all the blood, death, and destruction. Alkaia’s loss resonated loudly in her soul, rippling out to the farthest reaches of her being. She’d watched her grow from a little hatchling, paws overlarge and wings weak, to a massive copy of her father, lean and powerful as she commanded the winds. To have seen her fall so heavily, so effortlessly, had been heart-wrenching. Such a beautiful creature, gone within seconds as a club wrought her lifeless with a single blow.

Hermione had begun crying softly now, sniffling as she lamented her friend. Her aimless wandering had brought her to a small river, dotted with craggy rocks and the occasional sapling at its edges. A smile tugged at her lips as she drew closer to the music of the river. Alkaia loved the water; she keenly remembered the splashing and laughter after their first flight when the two Horntails fell into the mountain lake.

She followed the river around a bend, and found a magnificent white willow growing at its bank, its long, trailing fingers waved at her from the water. Slowly, she approached, finding great peace with the serenity that seemed to emanate from both tree and river. When she stood at the base of the willow, she lifted her hands to the trunk and felt a keen magic thrumming beneath her hands. It reached out to her, called to her, as if it had been the compass that led her feet while she wandered, but was never lost.

Gently, as if not to disturb the willow’s serenity, she pressed her forehead to the tree, and let a sigh fall from her lips. Yes, this had been the beacon that guided her, called her. But what had she to offer it?

She had been sent for a branch, armed only with a knife. The only wood to be taken from this glorious tree was attached to it, alive and healthy. Could blood repair what damage would be done?

Blood was all Hermione had ever sacrificed, and without a wand, she couldn’t safely offer it. Sacrifice was due, of course, an exchange of gifts, and she could not bear to turn her back upon the beacon that led her here without so much as a token of what she’d found. Though her knowledge of the Veela culture was rudimentary at best, she knew the language of souls, and heard the willow’s clearly. A calm, light melody hummed without breath or break, resonating softly through the air; it was nearly lost in all the tree’s whisperings and the wind’s shushing. 

 She’d been sent for a branch, yet she’d found a treasure. A living embodiment of a soul either new or reborn from a life past. Carefully, Hermione drew her knife and selected a bough. Nearly as thick as her wrist, the bough tapered magnificently to a point, small leaves dotted the length of it. She grasped it firmly, and begged permission to take it. Under her fingers, she felt the willow tense, bracing itself for the pain as it granted her request. She made short work of it, unwilling to bring the poor soul any more hurt. When the bough was free, she wasted no time in returning the gift in a slash across her palm before she pressed her wound to the tree’s.

Though she held no wand and summoned no magic, the white willow took her offering gratefully, and sighed as she withdrew.

Hermione whispered her gratitude, and bid farewell to the kind soul. As it had called her out to its reaches, the willow guided her back to the Veela village with a brush of warm breeze. Fleur met her as soon as she’d left the forest’s limits, and set to tending her wound though Hermione seemed lost in thought. She told her about the strong presence she’d felt with the willow, how it seemed to summon the magic necessary for sacrifice since she couldn’t herself. The Veela seemed both impressed and bemused, but would not tell her what the bough was for. Instead, she brought them to Asteria, who carefully examined the branch and deemed it a perfect specimen. With that, she sent the two away for the night, and told them to wake at first light.

When dawn broke out in pale pinks and purples, the pyre was lit. As dragons are born from fire, it is to fire they return, a great many with their Veelas tucked away in the protective folds of their wings. Hermione watched the great flames take the forms within them, and sadly thought perhaps she should lie with Alkaia and return to ash and fire. 

Again, she lamented her loss, wept for her dragon. A bond she’d never thought could possibly exist had been laboriously forged, only to be short-lived. She’d felt the sky as Alkaia had, tasted true freedom, chased the sun and wind. She’d learned a language that didn’t hold words or letters, but desires, instincts, thoughts that could clearly be interpreted without fail.

And now, it was severed, with a single, clumsy arc of a giant’s club.

Hermione turned into Fleur’s shoulder, and sobbed anew. She ached for the company of her lost friend, ached for the comfort she’d found with the white willow. She held to Fleur and thanked every god that at least she still held something dear to her, still held fast to her anchor, but still bore deep, oozing wounds in the aftermath of war.

As the fire burned away, as the ashes were lost to the wind, Asteria spoke. She lamented the loss of a vital piece of her tribe, her sisters and daughters and their dear companions. She consecrated the ground upon which they’d returned to fire, set it to bloom in fiery colors in every variety of flower and bush.

As a final act of farewell, she called out the survivors, those who’d lost their dragons but lived on without them. Hermione was both shy and hesitant to approach when her name was called, but Fleur insisted, and joined her with the others. To each one named gathered in a circle about her, she gave a slender, polished box.

“Open your gifts,” Asteria intoned, “And find the last gift of your departed.”

Nestled within black silk, the bough of white willow rested in the form of a wand. Nearly a foot in length and intricately carved, Hermione examined it closely, and felt a familiar warmth spread through her, and tears poured from her eyes. She didn’t have to be told.

“These wands you hold are given to you by a number of means. Your lost had a final gift to give you, one stronger than death. The heartstrings of your dragons live within the wands you hold now, and through the veil of death, they will continue to guard you, protect you, through these new vessels.”

As one, the Veelas took their new wands in hand. Gold and red sparks issued from Hermione’s, and she almost swore she heard Alkaia’s cheerful chirp. The lioness smiled, and cast a grand spell. Large billows of smoke and fire lifted up to the sky, bearing every shade of green and gold. She turned back to Fleur, and nestled herself firmly into her side. The Veela kissed her forehead, drew the rosewood wand from her belt, and cast out sparks of red and silver to join Hermione’s.

The affair ended on that note, with a sense of finality and closure. That night, the two returned to Number 12 to receive Harry and offer whatever comfort they could. Now that the war was over, he’d be left completely alone if it wasn’t for them and the Weasleys.

He was grateful for their presence, and for their understanding of his frequent need for solitude. They’d converse quietly amongst themselves, drink too much wine in attempt to dampen their memories, and retire to their respective rooms, only to meet again for quiet meals and more wine. There was an understanding between them, a delicate balance of companionship and solitude that needed to be maintained. Of course, Fleur never left Hermione’s side, but being alone with one another seemed to maintain the balance enough. During this time, they planned a trip to Australia to find Hermione’s parents, bring them back home and hopefully pick up where they’d left off.

This was far easier said than done.

Finding them was only half the battle, the easier half. Working up the courage to approach people who, in essence, were complete strangers was another matter entirely. They looked so young and happy, carefree as they sampled Australian cuisine and dabbled in the local activities. It took Hermione three days to finally approach.

Her mother, always so sincere and kind, dug through her purse as a stranger began to cry in front of her and offered a tissue. Hermione wiped her eyes and blew her nose, unable to look at Jean where she looked at here, her stare a blank slate. No recognition struck her, no familiarity. Though Hermione wore her hair and bore her eyes, the Muggle woman didn’t sense any coincidence.

Finally, Fleur took over.

“I know this will be a shock to you,” she began, rubbing circles into Hermione’s back. “But we have something very important to tell you, Jean.”

At this, the woman’s brow knit as her jaw slackened.

“How did you know my name?”

“That’s exactly what we need to talk with you about. Please, allow us this.”

“What is this?” Thomas began, looking between the Veelas. “Some sort of prank? Some sort of scam?”

“No, not at all,” Fleur insisted, trying in vain to evenly divide her attention between the woman sobbing in her arms and the increasingly dangerous situation before her. “Please allow us to explain.”

Reluctantly, they allowed themselves to be led out onto the beach, away from the crowds to have privacy, but close enough to call for help. They found a nice, flat rock to sit on, while Hermione, after having collected herself, paced before them. Finally, she drew a deep breath.

“Firstly, my name is Hermione.”

“Oh, I love that name…” Her mother murmured softly.

The lioness swallowed audibly. “I am also your daughter, and here are the tests to prove it.” From her bag, she drew a manila folder. Everything had been tested, blood, hair and saliva, and all came back with a resounding positive match. Jean and Thomas looked between the papers, between each other, and finally at Hermione.

“I can’t believe…”

“How—how is this even—”

“That’s the next part,” Hermione murmured. “I’m also a witch, born of magic, good magic, and that’s why you don’t remember me. I’m going to draw my wand slowly, and cast something called a Patronus. It will take the form of a lioness, and it will be composed completely of light. Do you trust me?”

Thomas looked reluctant, but Jean looked intrigued.

“Just, face that way, please.” Thomas muttered, entirely apprehensive.

So Hermione turned, and drew her wand as she said. Again, she felt Alkaia’s gentle purr, and smiled as it seemed to rumble in her veins.

“Expecto Patronum.”

The white lioness was eager to materialize, and poured from white willow. She slowly approached the Muggles, and Jean was quite inquisitive of the feline. Against Thomas’s warning, she reached her hand out to the lion, and gasped when she felt an almost solid warmth.

“Thomas, touch her! She’s not… tangible, really, but it’s warm!”

Reluctantly, Thomas did as requested.

 “How do we know this isn’t some prank or trick of light?”

“Well,” Hermione murmured, waving her wand again to dismiss the Patronus. “Pick up a stone.” He did. “Hold it in your palm very loosely.” He did. Another complicated wave, and the rock grew into a handsome goblet, perfectly balanced in his hand.

“What the bloody hell…”

“Can you do such things too?” Jean asked of Fleur.

The Veela drew her own wand and revived a few withering blooms nearby.

The two Muggles fell silent, lost in thought.

Finally, Jean spoke again. “Magic is real… and science is real,” she added, glancing at the papers in her hand.

“And those eyes...” Thomas murmured.

“If you need any further convincing,” the lioness began, pulling a book from her satchel. “We took this before my last trip to school.” From the book, a picture was presented, one robbed memory frozen in time and protected by the spell that cleared it from their minds. The four of them smiled up at the lens from the dining area of their favorite café in King’s Cross, all their eyes bright and happy.

“You were there too?” Thomas asked, looking at Fleur.

“She plays a very important part in my life,” Hermione admitted, unwilling to essentially come out to her parents a second time. “But if you let me undo the spell I cast, I think you’ll find all this easier to believe.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Of course not, but you might feel a little strange. From what I understand, the spell doesn’t suddenly jog your memory, it slowly feeds it and it might feel a little like déjà vu. I only have one chance to do it, so you’ll have to be still…”

“Do it.” Jean said, slightly guarded, but very willing.

“Jean—”

“Do it. I am of scientific nature, and if this is all what it seems to be, the best test subject is often oneself.”

Hermione nodded, and upon her father’s surrender, carefully waved her wand. She kept up hard concentration, pushing as much of her own memory as she could into her mother’s. She felt her own mind reach out and touch Jean’s, felt the transfer begin and felt the wards that guarded her memory bend and break under their caster. But rather than rush in, the memories slowly filed inside, filling in cracks and tears that Hermione had created. It took Jean a little while to truly feel the magic and memory work her mind, but accepted it as one would observe an experiment as it carried.

When her resources were spent, Hermione withdrew carefully, as if her mind itself was a syringe. Jean opened her eyes, and began to work through a foggy mind. Slowly, she turned her gaze to Fleur.

“I remember you… you’re a… not a siren… Veal… no, not veal, obviously. Vee… Veela?”

Fleur nodded. “Yes. And?”

“And… Hermione too…”

“Go slowly, Mum,” Hermione whispered, tears stealing her voice.

“Your best friend is Harry Potter.” She murmured, awed at the sudden finality and sharp, crisp memory. “He has a scar on his forehead. He stays with us before you go back to school.”

Hermione could only nod. She’d dreamt it would only go half so well. She didn’t imagine a better alternative, didn’t think she’d actually get to stand reunited with her parents, reaching out across the void she’d made. But here she was, and Jean was making her way through the returned memories with surprising ease.

“Thomas, she’s telling the truth,” Jean murmured at last, wiping at her own eyes.

“Jean, how can you expect—”

“I _remember_ things, Thomas! And these tests!” she said, waving the clinic papers. “The marks on my stomach! Those _eyes,_ Thomas. Look at her eyes…”

After a great deal of thought, Thomas allowed himself to take part. Though overwhelmed and almost completely magically spent, Hermione reached out again. Again, the syringe of her mind slowly entered her father’s, and just as slowly, she pushed the plunger down. Memory flowed in at a snail’s pace, so careful she was to make the transfer seem natural to him, but it was wearing Hermione thin. It took an enormous amount of will and concentration to keep up such a slow pace, and having her mind so deeply embedded in another’s was almost as dangerous as giving her father an icepick lobotomy.

Her body began to shake under such strain, but she grit her teeth and kept up her concentration. The longer she went on, the harder her jaw clenched, and the more violently she shook. Finally, Thomas felt her presence shaking, and began to pull away. She moved with him, pushing herself so she wouldn’t lose the connection, but he only withdrew further, both mentally and physically. In a final effort to give him as much memory as she could, the lioness slammed the syringe down, and fell to the sand shaking. Thomas had also fallen, Jean by his side and Fleur at Hermione’s, but lioness didn’t spare a thought to her own pulsating headache. She only prayed he’d gotten enough back; enough to remember her firsts, her triumphs, her childhood.

Slowly, he came back to himself, blinking up at the three in turn. He whispered Hermione’s name, this time with recognition, but he had no memory of Fleur, or of Hermione in the years she’d known and loved the Veela.

Hermione glanced between the three, unsure of what to say. While she was no longer a stranger without memory to him, even if it must be hard to suddenly have such memories of another person, Fleur was a mere commoner. She was nothing special to him. She wasn’t the knight in shining armor of the stories he’d read to her at bedtime. She wasn’t Hermione’s whole universe shrunken to fit inside two blue eyes. She wasn’t the queen and guard of Hermione’s heart.

Fleur smiled a small, sad smile, and folded herself neatly on the ground. “One step at a time then, yeah?”

And she explained everything over again. She told him when she’d come across Hermione in the library, stumbling into her and charming her with her accent. How she’d been surprised and pleased to have found someone who could speak to her, refuse her requests, treat her like a human rather than a Veela. A slight detour of conversation led to that explanation, of stars and ancient seas and their farers. She was quick to return to Hermione, however. The bond she’d accepted and forged, after having carefully considered them. She told him of the gifts they’d given one another, of their sacrifices, and the war, though that topic was merely skirted over. Jean and Thomas both had no idea that their daughter had been a key part in the fight and victory of such plights, even before she’d taken their memories, and instinctively gripped Hermione’s hands.

Finally, she finished, her eyes flicking between the two of them. Thomas’s acceptance had been the hardest to win the first time around, and again, Fleur wasn’t expecting a terrific reaction. But the large man thought, long and hard, and finally gave an affirmative nod.

Fleur let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, and took Hermione in her arms. She kissed her hair and wiped her eyes, while Jean looked on with a smile.

“I know this is all very strange,” Hermione murmured, still choked up. “But we can go slow. I just couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing you again.”

Jean nodded, still keeping a close eye on Thomas where he sat dazed as her side. “I think slow is a good idea…”

So it was more or less decided that the reunited family would take their time in reconciling. Contact information was exchanged, other information (such as the state of the Granger house and property) was sorted out, and all Hermione’s meticulous dismantling of her own life was unraveled before her eyes and set right again.

Jean and Thomas finished their holiday in Australia, while the Veela’s returned to Britain and Harry. They laid low for a long while, relishing in the quiet, rejoicing in the fact that they no longer had a price on their heads, that they could walk the streets without looking over their shoulders every other step. They reinstated the cleaning project of Number 12, and made their way from room to room, cleaning the inside of the house as if they would clean their own conscious if they could.

They tended little flower boxes outside the windows and tore off old wallpaper and painted their room in bright, happy colors. Having been surrounded by blue her whole life, Fleur begged Hermione for a yellow bedroom, something cheerful and lively. The lioness reluctantly gave in, and found herself rather impressed by the tone the soft color seem to emit, accented by a sweet cream color. This distraction prove to be very therapeutic, and soon color seeped from every room of the house.

It was a year later that Hermione decided to return to Hogwarts. She took the time and worked a small job in a Muggle city where no one knew her name while she repaired her relationship with her family, and tried her best to mentally prepare herself for the return. Of course, some things are better said than done.

She was reluctant to look upon the castle upon arriving. Her mind’s eye keenly remembered how the great kingdom had sat in ruin, how its warriors had littered its grounds. When she lifted her eyes, however, her jaw went slack.

She stared at her kingdom with the same childhood wonder she had when her eyes were virgin to the castle’s majesty. Not a brick nor scrap of mortar was out of place, not a shard of jagged glass winked from the lawns. The castle stood as it had before the great battle; its spires pieced the overhanging sky, it stretched up with its towers to greet the sun and moon and stars, its doors opened to admit new students and returning pupils to its winding passages and long House tables as light poured from the inside out.

Her hands clenched the gates. They opened for her without question, and when she crossed the barriers, she felt the embrace of a loved one. She dragged the kingdom over each of her senses. She felt the familiar damp breeze from the lake, she smelled the greenhouses and the lawns and Feast on the tables, she tasted the excitement of a new school year as the first-year children arrived on the boats, she heard the wind in the forest and its call to the Veela in her soul, and that castle was the focal point of it all.

Hermione brought her knuckle to her mouth and bit down. Fleur wrapped an arm around her, squeezing her gently as tears took over. She knew that as many fond memories she had of this place, she also had albums of horrid ones. This was the place where she’d been ostracized for the second time in her life, left friendless for a good part of her first year. This was the place where she’d watched an invisible hand work horrible magic and take her life in danger again and again. This was the place where she thought she’d be most safe, but was in fact the center of danger. It was here that she had watched Fleur tempt death, watched Harry do the same. It was here that she’d fought for blood beside her Veela when the darkness infiltrated, here that she learned she’d have to lie to her dearest beloved and commit horrible sins against her. And it was here, on these rebuilt but scarred, pitted grounds that she’d seen dear friends lay dead, here that life had been snatched away far too easily, here that she’d lost several years of her life for the fear that flooded her system.

But Fleur didn’t remind her of those memories. She did her best to recall the happy ones. All that time in the library, surrounded by knowledge that begged her to soak up. All those laughs in the common room and the Great Hall, childish pranks by the others. This was where she’d found good, lifelong friends who valued her and loved her.  Their first kiss in the Astronomy Tower, their dance together at the Yule Ball. This was where their Patronesses had first nuzzled together. How many times Fleur had sneaked through the castle, either into it or out, her only intention to smother Hermione with kisses and perhaps a bit more with something else. 

The Veela was relieved when that last bit brought a blush and a smile to her face. She didn’t take offense to the playful swat Hermione threw her way either, but crushed the lioness more closely against her. She sniffled softly, and shook her head against the Veela’s shoulder.

“Perhaps it was too early to come back.”

Fleur stayed silent for a time, at a loss for words.

“Perhaps,” she finally sighed. “If it’s too much, you can leave. McGonagall will understand.”

Hermione drew a breath. She knew that already. The headmistress had accommodated her in several fashions, allowing her to live off campus with Harry and Fleur, arranged with Madame Pince so that she could eat her lunches in the library rather than the Hall, for how could one eat when they’d seen dear friends stretched out there for their funeral wake? She’d not questioned when Hermione had filled out her class schedule and saw that she only took the core curriculums required to graduate, the few she had left, though she could have easily argued her plethora of elective credits.

Instead, the lioness shook her head. “I’ll only be here for half a semester. And I’ll be home early in the day. I can handle this.”


	2. Chapter II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone, I'm terribly sorry it's been so long since out last chat, and I'd like to thank you all for your patience and kind words for my family. My mother is doing well, though she will be undergoing two major surgeries very soon and would like to extend her own thanks for your thoughts and prayers.  
> Also, as I've noticed several questions being posted in the comments, if anyone would like to chat with me personally to ask questions or generally fan-out about this amazing couple we know and love, you can find me on KIK by the username of ReginaCorda. No surprise there, of course.
> 
> Now to talk about the fic. There's quite a bit of happiness in this chapter, though the next will get significantly darker. So enjoy this one while you can. I've no idea how long it'll be until the next chapter is ready, though I hope it won't be nearly as long as this one took. For that I'm terribly sorry, and I hope to hear from you all soon.  
> Now, go on and have a read! 
> 
> All my love,  
> Regina

‘Handling this’ proved to be far more difficult that Hermione had thought. She found herself hurrying through the corridors, her books clutched to her chest, the walls of the castle closing in around her with a nonexistent threat chasing at her heels. She joined and left class early, lest allow herself to be swept up in the conundrum of the hallways as student who weren’t chased by their own demons dug in their heels with reluctance to attend another lecture. She ate in the library as arranged, and took comfort in the only room of the castle that she didn’t have a bad memory of.

Her haven had been spared of damage during the battle, saved from destruction by the divines themselves. It smelled the same, felt the same, so untouched by death and war it felt as though the room itself was another world, more boundless than the worlds crowded together in its shelves. Hermione could remember what it had tasted like to be unblemished there, remembered how it felt when the future was a safe and certain, tangible tomorrow, rather than impending and dark.

Despite this constant fear, she found respite within the walls of Number 12. She learned how to deal with the terrors that followed her throughout the castle and struck them down. It took several weeks before she could tolerate sitting in the middle of a classroom, but she still jumped each time the door opened to admit a professor or a late classmate.

She took it upon herself to see a therapist on Saturday afternoons, someone who’d listen and nod and offer new ways to help her combat her ails. Fleur would always listen, of course, and she was not offended by the therapist’s role in Hermione’s healing. She knew very well how much help a virgin ear could offer.

While Hermione continued her schooling, Fleur returned to Gringott’s. The money was good and kept her moving, kept her busy and freshened old memories of happier times. Though she still harbored a passion to become an auror, she knew she could not support both herself and Hermione while going to school full-time. She only began class after Hermione graduated and found a stable job teaching Charms alongside Professor Flitwick at Hogwarts.

Shortly after, they moved out of Number 12 as Ginny was moving in. They returned to Hogsmeade, though the little cottage Fleur had rented before was already tenanted by an elderly witch when they inquired of it. Together, they made a little home for themselves and discussed what they’d like in a future house, their _own_ house.

A few weeks after this discussion, Hermione came home from work to a candlelit dinner. Fleur had perfected her mother’s lemon-pepper chicken, served with white rice, grilled asparagus, and a sweet blush. As they were taking their second glass in the parlor, Fleur slipped to floor.

Her voice carried softly through the silence, her eyes, though slightly glassy, shone lovingly as she spoke.

“Hermione,” she began. “I know the implications mean worlds to you, and I know you’d like to do this properly; I’ve already asked your parents…” she paused, seeming to flounder for a moment. Hermione studied her wordlessly, amused by Fleur’s shifting eyes and wavering voice.

“What did you ask them?”

The Veela licked her lips, breaking eye contact for a moment. “We’ve accepted each other in many ways over the past few years, and… and I was hoping you would accept me in one other way…” She drew a deep breath, and met Hermione’s eyes once more, and presented her with a ring. “Marry me, Hermione, if you’ll have me.”

The alcohol-induced haze left Hermione’s head the moment she saw the ring. It was simple, white gold set with two sapphires on either side of a glittering diamond cut in a thousand facets. Though it was simple, Fleur had saved for months, and held it out in shaking hands. Hermione’s eyes flicked from Fleur’s eyes, to the ring, and back again. She opened her mouth to speak, a high-pitched whine emitted, and she clamped her hands over her mouth to hold the whine back.

Fleur dropped the ring, reaching out to Hermione as her face folded in concern. “I’m sorry, it’s too soon, I shouldn’t—”

Hermione had begun to tremble, terrified of the Veela’s apology but unable to articulate a response. Instead, she gripped Fleur’s collar, and pulled her into a kiss. She laughed and sobbed against her, her mind pulled in a million directions as she finally pulled back for a breath and shouted, “Yes! Yes, with everything I am and everything I have, yes!”

They fell to the floor together, wrapped in arms and legs and kisses and sobs. The ring was retrieved from beneath the sofa, and sat like royalty on Hermione’s hand. The stones caught light and threw it to the world in refracted color as Hermione threw her arms around her fiancée and peppered her with kisses, their wine forgotten and their clothes lost.

 

 

Fleur had just graduated from University when they married. By Veela law, their marriage was just, regardless of Wizarding or Muggle doctrine, and demanded upholding. Of course, the issue wasn’t hard to press, given Veela doctrine, temperament, and their names.

It was a glorious day. The sky was unmarred by clouds and the sun had free reign to smile over the whole affair. A Veela wedding would have been preferred, but the brides were insistent on their whole family being present, from both their fathers and even all the Weasleys, down to little Teddy, who insisted on scattering flowers down the aisle. Instead, a pristine chapel housed their gathered loved ones and watched another pair of souls complete this testament of love. Hermione’s parents, raised Catholic but well-versed in science and the languages of love, watched with swollen eyes and wet hand-kerchiefs.

Harry stood at Hermione’s side, and watched with a swollen heart as Fleur lifted Hermione’s veil, and as she lifted hers in turn, both crying with happy smiles as they recited vows to one another. Two beautiful souls, two diamond rings, and two white dresses stood at the alter and completed the ritual, bringing two houses together in love and harmony.

That night, they danced and sang, drank and laughed. They remembered those who they would have given anything to share in this happiness with them, and toasted to their memories. They sat around a bonfire in the early morning and roasted marshmallows, drank more wine, and exchanged stories. They made promises by the stars to make more effort to see one another, despite work and school. They made bets on who would be the next to marry, all eyes turning to Neville and Luna, where they sat nestled together by the fire. The Ravenclaw smiled as the Gryffindor blushed, and told them of their marriage planned for the coming winter.

“Winter is the perfect time to marry!” Luna said excitedly when Hermione had inquired of it.

“But, everything is dead.” Ron returned, tactlessly, in obvious favor of summer.

“Not dead, silly,” Luna laughed. “Sleeping. Peaceful. Waiting for snow to make the whole world look fluffy and pure; next year’s flowers rest under the snow as bulbs and seeds, animals hide in their dens, snuggled up together. The sky is cleansed when it snows, you know. It really is a lovely season.”

“But thousands of people die every year, from accidents and roads being slippery.”

Luna regarded him carefully. “The same is true of summer, with its hurricanes and droughts.”

No viable argument could be made, not that any argument other than Luna’s or Neville’s counted for much, and when December broke, Luna’s words sat heavy in Hermione’s memory. She was right, of course, but feeling the sharp caress of winter allowed an abstract understanding to develop texture and depth.

The clouds were low and thick, snow lay heavy on branches and crunched deliciously underfoot. Bells tolled as Fleur and Hermione approached, huddled close together despite their sensible woolen dresses and pea coats.

The ceremony was held outside beneath a grand canopy, very similar to the one under which Tonks and Lupin had married. Hermione felt a sharp stab of remorse and sadness for their absence, and with the accompanying memory of the day she’d been forced to leave Fleur behind her. Banishing those thoughts, she tucked closer to Fleur as they took their seats with little Teddy and Ron, resolute in joining in the joy and happiness of her friends without tainting it with such gloom thoughts and memories.

Instead, she busied herself with studying the spread, charmed by the magic around her. There were no walls to protect them from the gusts of wintery wind, but the cold was not unpleasant. The space was decidedly warm, though flowing currents of both warm and cold flowed through, keeping the guests content and the snow unthawed. Whole trees seemed to hold up the canopy, heavy with snow, icicles, bird’s nests, and candles that had been very carefully affixed to forks in branches. Large, spun-glass snowflakes hung from the ceiling, and caught the candlelight.

A few minutes later, Neville took his place at the alter in a dark blue tux, Harry at his side who wore a similar shade and a kind smile, which Neville often drew upon for reassurance. Each time, it was given with a nod. Beside him stood Ernie, Dean, and Seamus, who all looked very happy for their friend, and to be together again.

Luna then approached on the arm of her father, dressed in bright yellow robes, somewhat ill-befitting to Luna’s glorious pale blue. Hermione resisted the urge to groan when she saw the radish-shaped earrings hanging from her ears. Ginny took her place at Luna’s side, having been chosen as the maid of honor after their deepened and lasting friendship from their time together when Luna had stayed at Aunt Muriel’s. Alongside her stood Cho, Katie Bell, and another Ravenclaw Hermione felt terrible for having forgotten her name.

The two said their vows, exchanged their kisses, and Hermione felt a lift in her heart as tears sprung to her eyes. She leaned into Fleur, solid and warm, and cried silently. Finally, it seemed like the evil tarnish was being polished away. Finally, happiness could thrive without worry of being hunted or killed.

She knew what would follow. Ginny had been gazing at Harry for ages now, and it was only a matter of time. Soon, children would come, and another generation would begin. Her own children would go to school with Harry’s, and maybe, just maybe, Ron’s. They would follow in their parent’s footsteps, though this time, and she would make for _damn_ sure, no evil hand threatened them, or enticed their mischief.

As she gazed up at Fleur, that strong jaw and those gorgeous lips and those deep, spellbinding eyes, she found herself aching. Filled to burst, she cupped the Veela’s hand in her cheek and kissed her until she couldn’t breathe, and when they pulled away, Teddy asked why Auntie ‘Mione was crying.

“Because, wee one,” she murmured softly, taking the boy in her arms and squeezing him gently. “I’m so very, very happy. And sometimes, when we’re very happy, we cry, because we don’t have the words to tell the people we love how happy they make us.”

Teddy, who’d leaned back to study her for a moment, leaned in and squeezed her as tightly as his little arms could. “Auntie ‘Mione?”

“Yes, love?”

“I can’t cry right now, but you make me very happy.”

Hermione smile, drew a shaking breath, and murmured, “You make me very happy too, Teddy.” She glanced over to see that Fleur, too, had tears in her eyes. She gripped her hand, and offered a wobbly smile, knowing the blonde’s thoughts were on similar path. She too had reveled in this new happiness, this manifestation of their efforts in the furthest, darkest reaches of their memory.

Unbeknownst to them, however, a dark cloud loomed in the distance. Already, tendrils of fear and doubt had taken hold of Fleur’s heart, mind, and soul, the beginnings of an infection taking root. Already, her dreams had darkened, and for now, were entirely absent from waking memory. Soon, they would take hold, curl their fingers around her throat, and drain her of joy.


	3. Chapter III (Original)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, let me start by saying sweet god, I cannot tell you how guilty I am for it being damn near TWO YEARS since I've updated. Seriously, wow "I'm sorry" doesn't begin to cover it. 
> 
> Thank you, everyone, who wished me and my family well. My mother has recovered fully from her surgeries and is doing just fine, and I have been fighting a very rough uphill battle with anxiety myself over these last two years, but I'm pleased to say that while I'm better, some days are certainly worse than others. Which kinda brings me to the chapter. 
> 
> In this chapter, Fleur is faced with very dark demons and little clue as to how to fight them, similar to my own experience. This chapter features anxiety, paranoia, PTSD, depression, an accidental overdose and failed therapy sessions, all of which are certainly daunting. 
> 
> I would like to say that while I am greatly interested in psychology, I am not a psychologist and this chapter is by no means a way of me sharing tangible information. In the event that it appears as though I have a negative stance towards medication and mental illness, I want to say this is most certainly not the case. It took me a long time to be comfortable seeking help for myself and, while I was never medicated, I believe it is perfectly acceptable and healthy to be medicated should a person and their doctor reach that conclusion as openly, honestly, and informed as possible. 
> 
> This chapter might be hard to get through, and I'm terribly sorry for that. But I did promise a happy ending, and you will get it. Again, I was very unsatisfied by the "And all was well." ending, it must have been hell to go from total war to a somewhat calm life and to have time to consider everything that happened and everything that was lost. 
> 
> Hopefully, I'll be able to spend more time with this story now that my own battle is won and as my time in the Army draws to a close in the coming months. I'm sorry it took me so long to update, and though I still can't promise when I'll be posting again, I will not simply abandon our ladies here. 
> 
> Please proceed with caution. If you need to stop, please do so, and if you'd rather read a version that does not feature the overdose itself, it is available to you in the next chapter (Chapter 4). 
> 
> As usual, thank you all so much for your continued devotion to this story and to my good friends IndieFox and Wolfy for their beta-ing. If you have any questions, comments, concerns, or just want to say hi, please feel free to do so here or on Tumblr as several of you have. 
> 
> With love,   
> Regina

Time passed, as it was apt to do. Minutes to hours, days to weeks, months to years. Hermione loved teaching, reveled in the fact that she could now sit and take her meals in the Great Hall, the place where dear friends had been prepared for their final rest, given their last respects and best wishes. She drew often from this well of pride and believed it to be a testament to the memories of those who’d fallen, but even now, she still had trouble sitting there on the anniversary of the Great Battle and the bloody preamble to it when Dumbledore died; when her mind would return to such dark times as if that mental journey was made to pay homage to those lost defending their beloved kingdom. Her mentor, employer, and now friend knew of these honors, and each time, Minerva McGonagall would leave her to her thoughts with a gentle pat on her hand and a kind smile, endlessly proud of the strength her most promising pupil displayed but always very careful she knew she had a kind ear willing to bend for her.

She loved Hogwarts, though the castle still daunted her from time to time, she loved each brick and every scrape of mortar that held the great kingdom together. She loved meeting young first-years, loved watching their eyes light up when she stood at the front of her classroom, hands planted firmly on her hips, and proclaimed, "Hello, and welcome to Hogwarts! My name is Professor Granger, and I'm very happy to meet all of you! Now, to get big questions out of the way, yes, I am a Muggle-Born, and I am quite proud of it!" and just like that, several pairs of eyes would light up, smiles brightened, other Muggle-Born children in complete awe of their new idol. They would be hooked in days, some of them, those who were most like her, were hooked in minutes. Fires ignited in every heart that passed through her threshold, and talented charm-casters flourished under her watchful eye. A few older Slytherins asked if they could start a study club after hours with her, and soon all Houses and all ages joined together and tutored, practiced, studied, and laughed.

Even as she loved teaching, she knew she could not stay there permanently. Beyond the mental strain, beyond the memories she faced every time she passed those tall, wrought iron gates, there was much to be done; much to change, amend, and nurture. Fleur was doing well for them, a trained and deadly Auror who thrilled in her field of tracking and detection, and easily supported them while Hermione returned to school for a short time to obtain a secondary degree in political science with which she soon took a position with the Educational Department of the Ministry of Magic. There, she fought rusted, outdated rules and drastically improved the health of students and graduates' contribution to their world.

For a long while, everything seemed perfect, easy, natural. Then, the terrors of the past began stirring. At first, they were subtle and did not rise as a phoenix rises from her ashes. They toiled, at first in the dead of night beneath a thick layer of unconsciousness, then in flinches and flashes, then in waking nausea and lethargy. Nightmares soon followed, vivid third-person memories where her conscious mind was forced to watch slaughter after slaughter, any plea of the Imperious curse falling to deaf ears. She had killed without abandon, uncaring of any other lives that might have been lurking in houses that held her enemies. At the time, they were just as guilty in her mind. But it wasn't a sense justice that had led her to rip whole bodies apart. It was a principle. If they were deadly, if her people lived in such fear of them, then their families should fear her as well. Their families should share her pain. Their families should have a taste of her loss.

Long stretches of her memory were blank, however, revealed to her only in the forms of these nightmares, leaving her to question their accuracy or validity. This native skepticism quickly fled, however. With nothing to contest them, they grew more vivid, the line between possibility and fact blurred to nothing.

 Several times, she dreamt of herself in the ruins of a village. She followed this dream-Fleur through the half-burned, half-blown out houses, magic visibly shimmering over her body. Her hands were bare up to her elbows where tattered sleeves fluttered, her feet unshod against the earth. She could only follow from a distance, however, not keen to draw attention to herself. Each time, she crept from wall to wall, keeping a low silhouette, following this monster of herself. Each time, she found herself staring down at a nondescript pile of blankets and clothes in the bedroom of one house, whispering words that she couldn't quite make out from the distance. She always moved on, however, quietly slipping away from the mayhem brought by her own hands.

Fleur would peer at the bundle after she was sure her projected self had long since gone. What she saw varied from time to time. Once, she saw a small girl, no older than nine, her hair caked with blood and her eyes open in death. Another time, she'd seen a mother and son laying broken together, heard their pleas as her half-self looked down briefly, and passed them by without mercy. Tonight, however, she'd seen someone new. This time, she'd heard the words the other Fleur had spoken. _Ainsi soit-il. Des cendres aux cendres, vous mentez seul._ This time, the other Fleur had taken a moment longer to look down at her conquest, kneeling beside it. She did not touch it, did not look at it with remorse, or even cold indifference, but pleasure. When she rose, her mask was in place again, no hint of the joy felt previously betrayed her stony features. She turned, and without another glace, strode away.

Fleur followed after few seconds, though she did not want to see this new face, this new body, to whom such cold words had been spoken with such lack of contrition. She desperately tried to thrash away, to wrench herself awake to no avail. Helpless, she followed.

Hermione lay pale and waxen. Her eyes were glassy and held no focus. Blood leaked from the corner of her mouth, and her chest was still. Fleur, her hands shaking, reached out to her, cupping her dearest beloved's face in her palms. Her skin was cold, firm and unyielding under her fingers, and as she started to cry and her breath rattled hollowly in her chest, Hermione's dead hazel eyes shifted and locked on her.

She jerked away, her body violently coming out of sleep as she lay, panting, beside her peacefully sleeping wife. Her sheets were completely soaked with sweat, her hair plastered to her forehead and cheeks. Blood roared in her ears and she was keenly aware of every artery in her body as her heart pounded away.

After that nightmare, she began to resist sleep entirely, as she was terrified to see Hermione's dead stare become alive again. Instead, she lay awake into the wee hours of night, helpless to forget the victims she remembered. These, however, were not like the victims in her dreams. They had undoubtedly been horrible people, guilty of hideous acts, but how were hers any different? She'd stood placid as bodies bled out in front of her, as their faces turned blue and purple for lack of oxygen, stepped over them while they thrashed about, desperate to cling to life.

It had been war. It had been hell. But no matter how hard it had been, it didn't seem to justify her cruelty, and now she paid for it. Most nights, even though she desperately tried to keep herself awake, she woke to Hermione shaking her, calling to her, her questions unanswered as Fleur clung to her wife, her ear pressed against her chest just to hear the proof of life under her.

She tried to keep these terrors from Hermione, from herself as much as possible, believing she needed more time to heal but ashamed to admit such thing. She took an unspecified leave of absence from her career as an Auror. The time away from the adrenaline-fueled job helped, certainly eased her triggers, but within a few weeks, the nightmares returned. She began to isolate herself, returned to work after a week spent staring at her ceiling, working in the records room of the Auror Office rather than the field.

Harry was shaken by this. Fleur was one of his strongest teammates, but even he could see how sunken her eyes were, how she flinched at loud noises, how the frenzy of pursuit did not make her come alive so much as it revived the monster she'd previously been. He commented quietly to Hermione, who had seen the change in her wife much earlier than he, but believed Fleur would come to her if she needed. The Veela was not one who enjoyed pity, and would much rather seek help after every other option had been exhausted first.

Hermione hadn't liked it. Several times, she'd tried to talk to her, get her to open up, but each time she felt like progress might have been made, Fleur would push away again, uncaring and oblivious to the hurt it brought her. At first, Hermione's kind and gentle offerings had seemed to help, but this was a weak antibiotic unfit for the raging infection plaguing Fleur. After several weeks of quiet dinners and sleepless nights, Hermione reached out again.

"I'm frightened," she confessed softly into the dark. "It's not like you to shut me out, though I can guess why you are. Let me help you, Fleur. I love you and I'm worried about you."

The Veela sighed and turned to face Hermione. "I'm sorry," she murmured back. "I don't know if you can help."

"You're hurt, Fleur. I'd rather clean and bandage a wound rather than ignore the fact that you're bleeding. If the wound needs stitches, I'd be happy to take you to a doctor to get them, but I cannot continue to act as though what happened, what's happening, isn't painful to watch or for you to bear alone." Her voice broke, and tears escaped her eyes. She made no move towards Fleur, and the Veela did not offer her an embrace. The lioness could not hold back her sobs as she waited for Fleur to move, to embrace her, as she was not offered respite.

"And," Hermione forced out, gritting her teeth. "I cannot continue to feel so lonely while I lay inches away from my wife."

Fleur shuddered and damned herself.

_How dare you? So self-absorbed you push away your own love! Your own wife! How much pain have you brought this poor creature? How can you ever repair it? You_ saw _her lying dead that night! You see her lay dead in your dreams, but you can't even bring yourself to feel her warmth, to ease her ails as she so desperately tries to ease yours!_

Slowly, as if she was uncertain of her welcome, Fleur offered her arms. The lioness was quick to accept, but hesitance shone in her movements as she regarded Fleur's arms as an insect might regard a Venus plant. But, like the insect, she was drawn into Fleur's embrace, but unlike the insect, death did not come for her. She sobbed into Fleur's chest, while the Veela's tears wetted her hair. Apologies were exchanged and small acts of love were given to one another. Their hearts were sore, and even kisses left bruises.

The following week, Fleur found herself in an office full of buzzing white lights. She fiddled nervously with the hem of her blouse as she waited to be called, talking herself out of any plans of escape her mind threw to her. Half-convinced that a non-existent latex allergy was reason enough to sprint out of the building, her name was called.

Hermione had allowed her to make the appointment herself, and as she'd wished for a completely blank slate to judge her, had selected a Muggle counselor. It wasn't until she sat down that she realized her mistake.

Dr. Cameron was a balding man with tired, glazed eyes and a lazy, drawling voice.

"So, Mrs. Delacour-Granger, what can I do for you?"

Fleur balked for a moment, unsure of what to say.

"Forgive me," she murmured, "I've never done this before."

Dr. Cameron mumbled unintelligibly.

"How about we start with your symptoms?" he suggested.

Fleur squeezed her hands together. "I... I can't sleep at night."

"Are you having nightmares?"

"Yes," she admitted softly.

"What about?"

She contemplated telling him everything, but found she couldn't with so little trust, not to mention the fact that he was a Muggle. "I can't remember them. I just wake up sweaty and scared."

He took a moment to scribble in a notepad. "Go on."

"I'm anxious. I'm withdrawing from the people I care about."

"Do you have feelings of hopelessness or emptiness?"

"Yes."

"Anger or fear?"

"Yes."

"Thoughts of suicide?"

Fleur's heart skipped a beat. "No."

Dr. Cameron nodded smartly, scribbling away. "Well, Mrs. Delacour, I think I know how to help you." He spent the next few minutes scribbling in a different notepad before he ripped off several sheets of small, square papers. "These medicines should help. If not, come by again and we'll try something else." He rose, patted her shoulder, and held the door open for her.

She walked past him, silent and angry.

For several days, the prescriptions sat neglected and untouched, hidden in her wallet.

Then she hit one of her lowest lows. Whole stretches of her memory were left completely blank, while she hid in bed and stared at nothing in particular for hours. She had not the energy nor the drive to will herself out of bed, or even speak as her wife desperately tried to rouse her. This lasted for three days, until she finally returned to herself and spoke of her appointment with Dr. Cameron. Hermione learned of her prescriptions and filled them immediately, patient and gentle and unoffended if Fleur’s silence had tempted her anger or irritation.

Amitriptyline did not agree with her, and wrought even more nightmares. She'd awaken, sweating and crying and shaking, only conscious long enough to realize it had been a nightmare before the medicine knocked her unconscious again.

Valium was slightly more agreeable, though it was quickly replaced by Prozac, which left her vacant and lethargic. Klonopin soon followed, and provided the best mask. She felt better, but not whole. Fractured, but with no hint or token as to which pieces were missing or how to find them. But she hid from these thoughts of brokenness that dwelled beneath her conscious. She kept it from Hermione and she kept it from Dr. Cameron, desperate to be better and happy and enjoy the world as everyone else did around her.

Fleur returned to Auror work—after no small urging, Harry finally relented—and for a while, everything seemed to have gotten better. It wouldn't last, however. Their next target, had a habit of left trails of bodies behind them, torn and flayed and broken, both Magical and Muggle. Pure-blooded and bigoted, if she had to venture a guess. The victims were always the same: skinny, lanky males with dark mops of messy black hair and, more often than not, striking green eyes. Any one of them could have been Harry, and she'd thrown herself into tracking and decimating the person responsible.

She’d been more shaken by the modus operandi than Harry himself, who treated the whole matter with a professional, undaunted air.

She started distancing herself again, though this time out of paranoia. Harry knew she had been protective of him, had taken her oath of allegiance very seriously, sworn to him on the banks of Black Lake just after the Dumbledore died. But he hadn’t imagined she’d become so consumed by the need to uphold it. They’d discussed the matter, he released her from the oath, but it seemed futile. She held him in the same esteem as she did her sister, and refused to rest if she believed there was an imminent threat. He could scarcely fathom what might happen if she believed someone meant Hermione harm.

Harry took her off the case, shoved her back into the records room, but that didn't stop her completely. She still crept about various places of interest, traced motives, victims, methods, crime scenes, until Harry heard of this and put her on administrative leave once more. With no means to help find this bastard, she was left to her thoughts, and her nightmares returned, surging through the fragile plaster, utterly dependent on klonopin to give her some form of sanity.

Harry tried to comfort her, to no avail. He promised that the wizard would be sent to trial and then to Azkaban within days of his arrest without the possibility for exoneration, but the idea of imprisonment did little to ease Fleur. People had broken out of Azkaban before. Its walls, as high as they were, were no match for the fear of the Kiss of Death. The seas surrounding the place were not as rough as the basic instincts of escape. She wanted the man dead. She wanted to do it. Imprisonment was a temporary solution, after all. Death was permanent. He could be an example then, how should anyone else sympathize with him and attempt to send the message he did, their presence was not tolerated and would quickly be expunged. But she was not allowed the decision any longer. She no longer held power over who lived and who died. She no longer hunted and killed.

In the dead of night, shortly after her removal from the investigation, Fleur lurched upright once more, this time having stumbled again on Hermione’s broken and cold body in her dreams, this time wrought by the same wizard Harry hunted. The sheets were soaked and cold under her, but Hermione lay unaware and peaceful just a few inches away. Shaking, Fleur stumbled into the ensuite, and splashed cold water on her face. She stood, hunched over the basin, her knuckles as white as the porcelain she gripped. Water dripped off her nose and clung heavily to her eye lashes and when she gathered the courage to look in the mirror, she was met with sunken, haunted eyes. Her skin was wan and pale, stretched over her bones. Her lips appeared thin and chapped as she panted, and, unable to look any longer, rested her head against her hands.

An enormous sigh collapsed her ribs, and the need for klonopin crashed through her system. She had to have it, had to ease this building panic, had to trust that no harm would fall to those whom she loved, had to give herself something to relax enough to trust Harry’s instincts and the team he’d built. Had to trust in him, rather in the blind and suffocating paranoia that _insisted_ she listen. She opened the medicine cabinet and took out her bottle. Unknowing and uncaring, she unscrewed the lid and swallowed six pills.

Hermione woke a short time later, having rolled over onto ice-cold wet sheets. Groggy and confused, she lit a candle to see Fleur's side empty, and frantically searched for her wife. She found her on the bathroom floor, a thin line of foam at her mouth and unresponsive to her calls, barely drawing breath.

 

*         *         *

 

For once, she was at peace. Floating, suspended, half-sleeping half-conscious. Nothing demanded her attention, nothing scratched at her memory.

Then she became aware of the silence pressing in on her, more mental than physical. She found she couldn’t open her eyes, no matter how hard she tried.

_No matter,_ she thought serenely. _This is very nice, anyway. No reason to wake up._

Time meant nothing. Heartbeats seemed to have no purpose, and certainly didn’t keep time very well. For a long while, this suspended paradise was welcomed, until Fleur realized she had no hold on her thoughts. They drifted with their own hazy rhythm, barely grasped before they sped away.

This disturbance was noticed several times, as she had to remind herself to ponder these slippery streams of thought. She became aware of breathing, her own breathing, and took a surprised gasp. It wasn’t very deep nor was it very violent, but after the total stillness she’d been suspended in so long, the breath felt like a sharp kick to the ribs. She drew another, this time not nearly so forceful. Then, she became aware of her eyelids. At first, she saw nothing, but slowly started to register a soft yellow light at the corner of her vision, and finally decided to find the willpower to investigate the light just beyond her lids.

She immediately noticed she wasn’t in her bedroom. She wasn’t even in her flat. Instead, she was in a narrow bed, alone, and clothed in a thin gown. A television softly played a game show at the foot of her bed, the wall behind it was stark white. To her left was a curtained window, the light slipping through the folds the mysterious light that had roused her. No other light shone, other than the natural sunlight from the window and that of the television, and slowly, her eyes adjusted to focus on what appeared to be a recliner to her right. A small bundle of blankets had been left there, looking very rumpled, as if the person who used them was anticipating their return shortly.

The Veela was pulled from her musing with a sharp pain in her head. She lifted a hand to her head, but was jerked short; she wore handcuffs on both wrists, chaining her to her bed. A needle protruded from her elbow, dripping saline into her bloodstream.

These were not reassuring to wake up to. Her heart rate spiked, and the monitor to her left labored to keep up with her as it started to sound. Her breath came faster, and the air was suddenly heavily perfumed with Hermione’s scent. The realization further spurred her into a frenzy. She pulled at her restraints, cried out wordlessly, felt nausea churning in her stomach.

The door opened, admitting a flood of light and a frantic orderly.

“Mrs. Delacour! Please, do try to calm yourself, I’ve been ordered not to sedate you.” The orderly bustled to her side, her hands gentle and cool on either side of Fleur’s sweating brow. “Deep breaths, nice and slow, and once you’re calm, I’ll call your friend, she’ll want to know you’re awake.”

That caught the Veela’s attention.

“My-my friend? Hermione?”

“Yes, Hermione. She said she wasn’t aware of any next-of-kin, so insisted we contact her once you woke.”

Fleur balked, her breathing halted.

“Where am I?” she managed at last.

“Saint Abigail’s Trauma Center,” the orderly supplied.

Fleur relaxed slightly. A Muggle hospital. That at least explained why Hermione was merely a ‘friend’ though it didn’t ease her completely. She clutched at the bedsheets, out of the orderly’s sight, and was rewarded with a smart nod of approval once her monitor quieted.

“Good. I’ll go fetch your doctor and let Hermione know you’re awake if I see her in the tearoom.

Fleur relaxed further, though her hands remained clenched. As soon as the orderly left and the door clicked closed behind her, hysteria broke through. Her hands itched, her head ached, sobs wracked her tired, sore body. Minutes later, Hermione burst in. She ran for Fleur, throwing her arms towards her before she thought better of it. She slowed her advance, and approached slowly, her hands gently cupping her wife’s waxen, tear-stained face.

“Fleur,” she whispered, her eyes flicking between the Veela’s own.

For a long, silent minute, they simply stared at one another, tears running tracks down their cheeks.

“Am I okay?” Fleur finally whispered. “What happened?”

Hermione worried her lip for a moment, looking away to wipe at her eyes. “You… woke up in the middle of the night. Took several pills… the doctor says we can’t be sure how many…”

Fleur blinked. She couldn’t remember anything.

“They, ah, they pumped your stomach, you see,” Hermione continued, clearing her throat. “You’re to drink lots of water,”

“That would be lovely, if you could,”

Hermione nodded, grateful for the task, and helped Fleur sip at cool, not cold, water. Her throat burned, but the water was nice and soothing. Fleur thanked her as she pulled away, and rested fully against her pillows.

Hermione did not sit, just stood and looked at Fleur, and worried her hands. She was nervous; eggshells crunched beneath her feet. 

“I’m sorry,” Fleur finally murmured, feeling very small. “As feeble as it might be, I had not intended to overdose. I can’t even remember anything about that night. I remember dinner, though vaguely. That’s all. I never wanted to hurt you or worry you. Or hurt me, for that matter,”

They fell silent as a knock sounded from the door, and opened a moment later to admit the doctor overseeing Fleur. He checked vitals, took notes, and gave instructions to Fleur and Hermione on how best to proceed, and advised them to stay another day in the hospital. Fleur did not feel it was necessary and was very ready to return home, but Hermione was resolute and demanded she stay one more day. She gave in under the circumstance that the handcuffs be removed.

In time, they discussed more of what had led to the accidental overdose. Fleur told her of the nightmares, of the memories she couldn’t quite tell if she actually remembered them from experience or if they were leftovers form her worst dreams. She told her of the failed sessions with Dr. Cameron, and how hopeless she’d felt in his presence. She told her about the case she’d been working, all those men who could have been Harry, how she’d become obsessed with it. She told her how guilty she felt, simply by needing more than everyone else seemed to, how behind she seemed to be.

Hermione listened carefully, never once letting go of Fleur’s hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked softly.

Fleur looked away. “I… I didn’t want to worry you. I didn’t want to worry anyone. It’s been so long, and everyone else is doing so well, I felt like I should have been right there with them. I wanted to believe I actually was. But I wasn’t, obviously, and now everyone knows.”

Hermione shook her head gently. “No, love. Very few people know.”

The Veela looked at her curiously.

“You’re in a Muggle hospital. I figured first, since you were seeing a Muggle therapist and taking Muggle drugs, Muggle doctors and nurses would know best how to help you. It also gave the cover of privacy, although our marriage isn’t…looked upon here. A bit of legilimency might have helped,” she added quietly, flushing slightly. “But you’re entitled to heal at your own pace, Fleur. You deserve that.” She paused to take a great breath, locking her eyes firmly on her wife’s. “I have a proposition to make.”

The Veela regarded her carefully. “And what is that?”

“Let me book an appointment with a new therapist. From everything you’ve told me, Dr. Cameron was rotten and didn’t care much for fixing the root problems. If I may venture a guess, it seems like you have PTSD and depression and anxiety are symptoms from that. It sounds like he was attempting to treat those issues as separate entities detached from the PTSD, and then further did you a disservice by largely ignoring your need to heal.” She shook her head. “I think I know someone who could help, if you’ll let me help you.”

Fleur shifted uncertainly on her bed, biting her lip. “What if I don’t like them?”

“We’ll try other things,” Hermione murmured. “We’ll work together. You’re not alone, Fleur. You’ll never be alone again.”

Fleur met her eyes, fresh tears welling in them, and nodded solemnly, her heartbeat uneven in her breast.

  

          *         *         *

 

The Veela sat across from a woman in her early thirties. She had a kind smile, dark eyes, and long, glossy hair the color of a raven’s wing. A pad of empty prescriptions was nowhere to be seen, and this room was softly lit by electric lamps, but also boasted art of oil pastels and vases filled with fresh flowers, giving the room a sweet, light scent. An aquarium bubbled quietly from one corner, housing a small community of brightly-colored fish.

Miss Sarah, as she’d insisted on being called, leaned toward Fleur slightly, and drew a breath.

“I’m glad you came in,” she began softly. “Your wife was very worried about you, and thought I might be able to help. The thing is, you must want help, you must be willing to allow me to help. I don’t expect this to be easy, considering the circumstances, but we’ll be moving at your pace. Do you have any questions for me?”

 The Veela considered silently for a moment. “Have you worked with my wife?”

“No. I’ve met her, but I’ve never seen her as a patient.”

Fleur nodded. “What do you know about me?”

Miss Sarah thought for a moment, carefully selecting her words. “I know you’re sick, and I know you want to get better. I know you have a loving family who offers their support. I know you and Hermione come from… another world, if you will.”

Fleur’s head snapped up. Miss Sarah was smiling gently at her, though her smile was knowing. The Veela stood sharply, anger clear on her features.

“Tell me just what you mean by ‘another world?’” she whispered.

Sarah stood as well, her smile gone. “It’s not what you think, Fleur. I’m a Squib; I’ve been kept separate from the Wizarding World my whole life. I know nothing of the war other than the fact that there was one and the Dark One is dead. I know nothing of your part in it.”

Fleur was breathing rapidly. She’d wanted a blank slate. She’d wanted no bias to cloud judgment as she spilled out what she held in.

“Hermione told me what you needed,” Sarah said softly. “She said you needed an unbiased ear. But you can’t speak of a Wizard war with a Muggle and if you can’t be honest with your therapist, we can only do so much. I’m the best chance you’ve got. Please sit, and let me earn your trust. Believe my ignorance. I want to help you.” She paused, dark eyes silently imploring Fleur to consider.

The Veela flexed her hands, clenching and releasing, until her breathing had calmed. “Hermione specifically sought out you?”

“Yes. Her own counselor has a similar situation as mine.”

“And you know nothing of our past?”

“Only what she’s told me, which I’ve informed you of.”

“Do you know what a Veela is?”

The reply came soft and uncertain. “No,”

Fleur sighed heavily and took her seat again. “I am a Veela. I cannot share all our secrets, but you must know some.”

And so she told her. It gradually became easier to speak freely, sharing fond memories of the early days of the relation with Hermione. It quickly darkened, however, when the war began anew and took Hermione from her.

“We were at a wedding,” she said softly. “Two of our dearest friends and mentors, both lost in the final battle. She’d been acting strangely for months, though she was skilled at hiding it. I didn’t notice until it was too late.” She stopped for a moment, rubbing her face. “Looking back, it’s obvious. Her entire demeanor had changed, though she took great measures to keep it hidden. But she left me a letter, telling me she didn’t love me anymore. That she’d changed her mind. So, I did the only thing I knew to do. I went to my grandmother’s village, showed her the letter. She knew, of course, knew the truth, but I couldn’t know that. I had to give up my humanity, I had to become Veela.”

“Were you not before?” Miss Sarah asked quietly. “Was Hermione not Veela after she accepted you?”

“Yes, but in a different sense. I was born with the soul and blood of a quarter-Veela, Hermione received half in the form a soul, my soul, as it was bound to her when she accepted me. Being _born_ with Veela blood and _becoming_ a Veela are two different things. To _become_ one must return to the primitive state, through either pain as the First Mother did, or the strongest discipline, as tribe leaders and high priestesses—or to accept a Veela for a mate if the person in question is human. The total release of human thought, perception, and instinct, the release of so many centuries’ worth of evolution and return to the original, pre-evolved form. To willingly face death, knowing that the Mothers will only allow the best and strongest to return to life.”

Fleur paused and drew a breath.

“Honestly, I don’t remember much about my time in the forest. I remember when I died, but not much before that.”

“You died?”

Fleur nodded. “As I mentioned earlier, it’s not uncommon during such practice, though I went without the intention of becoming a tribal leader. I went with the intent to die without a chance of returning. Obviously, the Mothers had other plans. What better way is there to return to the animal? What better way to lose your humanity? What better way to fully embrace that dark, primal past than to die and return?”

“Almost like the phoenix.”

The Veela hummed softly as she considered. “Not quite. Sacrifices, exchanges, currencies. I gave up a life in order to obtain a new one, though I didn’t know I would receive it. I only thought I was dying. I had no intention of coming back.”

“But you did, when you shouldn’t have. How? Why?”

The Veela inhaled deeply. “Hermione sacrificed, too.”

“What sacrifice was that?”

“Me.” She answered softly. “Hermione could have asked me to accompany her, could have broken her confidence with Harry and Dumbledore, but she broke it with me instead. She risked losing me completely, actually did for a time, though that bit was unintentional. She risked losing herself with the gamble, as well. She’d meant only to send me away, like she did her parents, then realized it might have killed me, so she sacrificed blood as well. That was the night I returned.”

Miss Sarah considered silently for a time. “Do you have any memories from that time you’d like to share?”

Fleur bit her lip. “I… it’s hard to articulate them.”

Sarah smiled kindly and nodded. “These things take time. You should be proud of yourself, Fleur; you’ve done very well. I’m going to ask something of you, if you would humor me for a moment,” she got to her feet, the Veela wearily watching her. She went to a cabinet and dug through it for a moment.

“Blue, red, orange, purple, green, or yellow?”

“Pardon?”

“Which two of these most catches your fancy?”

Fleur considered for a moment. “Um, yellow and green, I suppose.”

Miss Sarah returned to her seat, and presented Fleur with two spiral-bound notebooks, one yellow and one green.

“I’d like you to keep journals, Fleur. Start to get to know yourself again. A place to record your thoughts when they invade, and hopefully make them easier to articulate. Let me be clear,” she said, her tone dropping. “I do expect to read something in our next session, and let me be doubly clear, this is not a place to record stories you think I’d like to hear. If it happens to be integral to the thought at hand, and _you_ want to re-examine, by all means, include what you wish to examine. But do not write an autobiography. If I need elaboration, I’ll ask for it, but I’d much rather get to know you through this,” she gestured between the two of them. “but this,” she held the yellow notebook aloft. “Will allow me to see as you do. Now, I said I expected to read something in our next session, and I do, however, only what you’re willing to share. If you please, keep one notebook for me, and the other strictly for you. Record the darker things, things you need to get out but might not be ready to share yet in one of these, while other, more easily sharable things may go into the other.”

“So, two notebooks, one for the two of us to share, and one for me alone?”

“If you feel like I should know something out of the other notebook, a nightmare, a bad memory, the desire to take pills, those sorts of things you’re still very raw and guarded on, I’ll be happy to oblige; or if you’d rather keep them entirely to yourself that’s perfectly fine as well. Just as long as they get out of your head, as long as they’re acknowledged. I understand how daunting of a task this can be to begin with. Think of it was a way to communicate with yourself and a way to log patterns of thought. Record happy things, too,” she finished, offering the notebooks to Fleur.

“Hermione has one,” the Veela murmured, taking them.

Miss Sarah smiled and nodded. “I figured she would. Now, before we wrap this up, I would like to say this. I know your feelings on medication are not favorable at the time, and for good reason. We don’t have to try if you don’t want to, however, if you do, we will start very, very small. That option is still open to you. Other than that, there are other methods we can try, at your leisure and comfort. Is that okay?”

Fleur considered silently. “You’re not writing any prescriptions for me?”

Sarah studied her carefully and finally asked, “Do you want me to?”

The question wasn’t asked with any expectation, she was simply looking for an honest opinion. The Veela’s stomach clenched. She was terrified. After what had happened, what was so close, she might never again take as much as an aspirin for a headache.

“No,” she said at last. “No, I don’t want medication right now.”

Miss Sarah’s face was perfectly neutral and betrayed no bias or judgment. “Okay, Fleur. If there’s nothing else you’d like to discuss, you’re free to take your leave and I’ll see you next week. Is there anything else?”

The Veela shook her head, smiling a small smile. “No, not at the moment. Thank you, Miss Sarah.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Fleur. Thank you for trusting me.” She smiled again, and was genuinely pleased when it was returned fully. 

 The next week passed rather quickly, and Fleur found herself anxious to see Miss Sarah again. She’d taken what she said to heart, though it was quite difficult at first. Her green notebook, dubbed the “secret” notebook, was filling rapidly. Still on administrative leave, her days were spent more or less confined to the house by her own will and that left ample time to think and write. The Veela practiced writing, at first only able to articulate very specific thoughts and the instinctive panic reactions to them, but soon found she could trace thought patterns.

As she became more articulate, she feared her own mind less. Having a physical outlet lightened her mental strain, and sleep was beginning to come easier. Hermione watched from a distance, still wary of accidentally startling her wife but also proud of the progress she’d made so far.

As Fleur continued to see Miss Sarah, she began to come back to herself. She’d been recommended to go back on klonopin, at a much lower dosage than before, and was struggling with the decision. She wasn’t addicted when she’d overdosed, rather, she craved the false security it had given her. Now, she realized and understood that it hadn’t been a false security; it had simply blocked the neurotransmitter responsible for feelings of anxiety. Now, she felt better about her paranoia, the fact that Harry had intercepted and neutralized the wizard behind the killings helped tremendously in that regard, but some days she was still jumpy and easy to startle especially if she wandered into the darker recesses of her mind and memory.

Miss Sarah was patient, however, and eventually, Fleur agreed to try again. Paired with the writing exercises and calming rituals, the medication helped ease the lingering fear. At this dosage, she was still capable of experiencing anxiety, but it no longer kept her confined to the house. She returned to work, though she remained in the records room. The Veela hated the idea, but knew deep in her soul she was never meant to set foot in the field again.

Harry was very kind and understanding, sad to see his team suffer such a loss but he valued Fleur’s well-being more. He loved her, and would have refused her if she’d asked to help him hunt down the latest criminal.

It irked her, somewhat, thinking of all the study and practice and heartache that had gone into her Auror education. They were valuable skills and had certainly earned her a name for herself, but part of her was saddened that wouldn’t be used as her mentors had intended. Even so, she was still approached for advice and guidance, and willingly imparted her knowledge to anyone who had a question.

It also made her feel more like herself again, too. During her time in school, she’d taken every lesson with the understanding they’d be of utmost importance upon graduating. To her dismay, adulthood proved to be far more reliant on experience and tact rather than test scores, but to feel sad for having skills go unused was very much like her younger self, and she felt as though she’d been reunited with an old friend.

Hermione had noticed, too, though she was still quite wary around her wife. During quiet breakfasts, she’d watch her over her teacup, bent over her yellow notebook which was becoming an increasingly frequent companion. Soon, she began sharing her notebooks with Hermione, allowing the very darkest and most closely guarded secrets to be examined by her.

At first, Hermione had been hesitant. The yellow notebook was easy; some parts hinted at a darker story than Fleur let on, probably further explored in the green notebook. Still, it was terrifying and difficult to behold. Fleur had endured terrible suffering, the weight of it was easy to perceive though Hermione doubted she understood its full magnitude. Fleur had truly felt alone and isolated, floating adrift in a sea of uncertainty and fear at what she had become, worried that the monster she’d been would come surging back.

Hermione never read the whole yellow notebook, and never was invited to read the green one. She suspected the green one contained closely examined nightmares and memories, and honestly had no desire to tread into something so intimate and fragile. She was thankful Fleur seemed to share this notion, but allowed parts of her own closely guarded notebook to be read, once she was comfortable with the idea of allowing the rawest, ugliest parts of herself to be laid bare to Fleur.

This sharing allowed a deeper understanding between the two. It allowed communication to grow, fundamental to healing the damage done to them. Gradually, the eggshells strewn about their home were swept away. They rediscovered one another, their scars and wounds no longer shameful and hidden, but well-known by the other. They understood triggers and sensitivities, helped one another through days as fragile as sandcastles at high tide. For Fleur, it had been comforting to know that Hermione had demons to fight, too, that she was not alone, though she was saddened her mate had to face any at all.

Finally, it seemed as though the Veela had truly begun to heal. She slept through the night, delighted in Hermione’s love, and could leave her home feeling safe. Some days were hard, but she’d learned how to live again.

The time soon came and she left the Auror office completely. St. Mungo’s was quick to hire her on, and she flourished as an apprentice Healer. Hermione continued to work at the Ministry, her eye set on becoming Minister one day, and was delighted to see several old pupils from her time teaching take positions under her.

 

One night, the two lay together, candlelight painting skin and hair in seductive tones and shadows. Fleur brought her hand up to cup Hermione’s cheek, marveling in the sweet, soft warmth she found there. Hermione’s exhales were gentle against her, her eyes soft as she lovingly studied her mate.

Though fully clothed, she felt as though they’d already made love and lay basking in the afterglow, so deeply she admired the woman by her side. She found herself aching, and pressed a tender kiss to Fleur’s lips. The Veela responded as though she had all the time in the world, eternities to spend memorizing and worshipping her mate, and Hermione keenly felt her heart begin to thump as though she were being kissed for the first time all over again.   

The Veela’s intrepid hands found her ribcage, and Hermione mustered all her strength to clasp the Veela’s hands in her own and pull her away.

“Fleur,” she murmured, nearly breathless. Her wife’s eyes were dark as they met her own, curious and playful. “I… I have to ask you something.”

Fleur regarded to carefully, her mouth tugging up on one side. “Ask anything.”

Hermione bit her lip, and shifted her gaze briefly. “I think we should… I think I want…”

Panic and concern briefly flitted over the Veela’s features, though she remained silent and allowed Hermione the chance to collect herself.

“I think I want a baby.” She admitted, meeting Fleur’s eyes once more. She could nearly swear she felt other witch’s heart stutter against her side, certainly felt the rush of heat that signaled her blush.

“You… you want a baby?” She finally managed, astounded. “With me?”

Hermione barked a laugh, disbelief knocking her for a moment. “Exactly with who else, silly?”

Fleur smiled fully then, color high on her cheeks and her eyes shining. They darkened suddenly, and Hermione longed to know precisely what thought was to blame.

“Are… are you sure we’re ready? Are you sure _I’m_ ready?”

“Well, _I_ certainly can’t tell you if you’re ready, but I’ve been thinking about this for a while, Fleur,” Hermione murmured, now cupping the blonde’s face gently. “It’s been nearly three years since your accident, we’ve both been released from the therapy programs we were in having made tremendous progress, we’re in a good spot financially…” she paused. “Please, think about it. I know you’re worried, but I truly believe we’re ready… if you don’t feel the same, I understand. This is a big thing,” she laughed gently.   

Fleur snorted. “Yeah, it is pretty big, huh?”

Hermione leaned in and bumped Fleur’s chin with her nose. “It is. We don’t have to commit to anything tonight. But I would like to seriously consider it.”

Fleur drew a breath, and nuzzled into Hermione’s hair, deeply breathing her in. She pressed a kiss to her temple, smiling slightly. The thought of a child pleased her greatly, but she knew better than to make a decision so large so quickly. Instead, she focused solely on her wife, bringing her pleasure as only she knew how.

Later, as Hermione lay peaceful and sated, Fleur kept watch over her. Their quilt had long ago been lost to the floor, their bodies covered by the sheet. Hermione’s skin still held glimmers of sweat in the dim light, her back bore marks left by nails and teeth. Fleur was sure hers looked similarly; they’d both been rather rough with one another, and now left her feeling a pleasant ache whenever she moved.

The Veela lifted a gentle hand and caressed her lover’s shoulder, reveling in the heat there. Hermione mumbled softly in appreciation, and Fleur continued to stroke her, smiling as goosebumps rose in her wake. The lioness shivered once and was still, a long sigh signaling her succumbing to sleep.

_A baby…_ Fleur thought as she settled, having retrieved the quilt and extinguished the candles. She fell asleep with her arms wrapped snuggly around Hermione, smiling into the darkness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter III (Without Overdose)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, the chapter with the overdose removed. Fleur wakes up in the hospital after being removed from a particularly daunting case she and Harry had been assigned to. 
> 
> Hopefully this version is easier to handle, should anyone need it. 
> 
> If there's anything I can do to make it easier, please let me know.

Time passed, as it was apt to do. Minutes to hours, days to weeks, months to years. Hermione loved teaching, reveled in the fact that she could now sit and take her meals in the Great Hall, the place where dear friends had been prepared for their final rest, given their last respects and best wishes. She drew often from this well of pride and believed it to be a testament to the memories of those who’d fallen, but even now, she still had trouble sitting there on the anniversary of the Great Battle and the bloody preamble to it when Dumbledore died; when her mind would return to such dark times as if that mental journey was made to pay homage to those lost defending their beloved kingdom. Her mentor, employer, and now friend knew of these honors, and each time, Minerva McGonagall would leave her to her thoughts with a gentle pat on her hand and a kind smile, endlessly proud of the strength her most promising pupil displayed but always very careful she knew she had a kind ear willing to bend for her.

She loved Hogwarts, though the castle still daunted her from time to time, she loved each brick and every scrape of mortar that held the great kingdom together. She loved meeting young first-years, loved watching their eyes light up when she stood at the front of her classroom, hands planted firmly on her hips, and proclaimed, "Hello, and welcome to Hogwarts! My name is Professor Granger, and I'm very happy to meet all of you! Now, to get big questions out of the way, yes, I am a Muggle-Born, and I am quite proud of it!" and just like that, several pairs of eyes would light up, smiles brightened, other Muggle-Born children in complete awe of their new idol. They would be hooked in days, some of them, those who were most like her, were hooked in minutes. Fires ignited in every heart that passed through her threshold, and talented charm-casters flourished under her watchful eye. A few older Slytherins asked if they could start a study club after hours with her, and soon all Houses and all ages joined together and tutored, practiced, studied, and laughed.

Even as she loved teaching, she knew she could not stay there permanently. Beyond the mental strain, beyond the memories she faced every time she passed those tall, wrought iron gates, there was much to be done; much to change, amend, and nurture. Fleur was doing well for them, a trained and deadly Auror who thrilled in her field of tracking and detection, and easily supported them while Hermione returned to school for a short time to obtain a secondary degree in political science with which she soon took a position with the Educational Department of the Ministry of Magic. There, she fought rusted, outdated rules and drastically improved the health of students and graduates' contribution to their world.

For a long while, everything seemed perfect, easy, natural. Then, the terrors of the past began stirring. At first, they were subtle and did not rise as a phoenix rises from her ashes. They toiled, at first in the dead of night beneath a thick layer of unconsciousness, then in flinches and flashes, then in waking nausea and lethargy. Nightmares soon followed, vivid third-person memories where her conscious mind was forced to watch slaughter after slaughter, any plea of the Imperious curse falling to deaf ears. She had killed without abandon, uncaring of any other lives that might have been lurking in houses that held her enemies. At the time, they were just as guilty in her mind. But it wasn't a sense justice that had led her to rip whole bodies apart. It was a principle. If they were deadly, if her people lived in such fear of them, then their families should fear her as well. Their families should share her pain. Their families should have a taste of her loss.

Long stretches of her memory were blank, however, revealed to her only in the forms of these nightmares, leaving her to question their accuracy or validity. This native skepticism quickly fled, however. With nothing to contest them, they grew more vivid, the line between possibility and fact blurred to nothing.

 Several times, she dreamt of herself in the ruins of a village. She followed this dream-Fleur through the half-burned, half-blown out houses, magic visibly shimmering over her body. Her hands were bare up to her elbows where tattered sleeves fluttered, her feet unshod against the earth. She could only follow from a distance, however, not keen to draw attention to herself. Each time, she crept from wall to wall, keeping a low silhouette, following this monster of herself. Each time, she found herself staring down at a nondescript pile of blankets and clothes in the bedroom of one house, whispering words that she couldn't quite make out from the distance. She always moved on, however, quietly slipping away from the mayhem brought by her own hands.

Fleur would peer at the bundle after she was sure her projected self had long since gone. What she saw varied from time to time. Once, she saw a small girl, no older than nine, her hair caked with blood and her eyes open in death. Another time, she'd seen a mother and son laying broken together, heard their pleas as her half-self looked down briefly, and passed them by without mercy. Tonight, however, she'd seen someone new. This time, she'd heard the words the other Fleur had spoken.  _Ainsi soit-il. Des cendres aux cendres, vous mentez seul._ This time, the other Fleur had taken a moment longer to look down at her conquest, kneeling beside it. She did not touch it, did not look at it with remorse, or even cold indifference, but pleasure. When she rose, her mask was in place again, no hint of the joy felt previously betrayed her stony features. She turned, and without another glace, strode away.

Fleur followed after few seconds, though she did not want to see this new face, this new body, to whom such cold words had been spoken with such lack of contrition. She desperately tried to thrash away, to wrench herself awake to no avail. Helpless, she followed.

Hermione lay pale and waxen. Her eyes were glassy and held no focus. Blood leaked from the corner of her mouth, and her chest was still. Fleur, her hands shaking, reached out to her, cupping her dearest beloved's face in her palms. Her skin was cold, firm and unyielding under her fingers, and as she started to cry and her breath rattled hollowly in her chest, Hermione's dead hazel eyes shifted and locked on her.

She jerked away, her body violently coming out of sleep as she lay, panting, beside her peacefully sleeping wife. Her sheets were completely soaked with sweat, her hair plastered to her forehead and cheeks. Blood roared in her ears and she was keenly aware of every artery in her body as her heart pounded away.

After that nightmare, she began to resist sleep entirely, as she was terrified to see Hermione's dead stare become alive again. Instead, she lay awake into the wee hours of night, helpless to forget the victims she remembered. These, however, were not like the victims in her dreams. They had undoubtedly been horrible people, guilty of hideous acts, but how were hers any different? She'd stood placid as bodies bled out in front of her, as their faces turned blue and purple for lack of oxygen, stepped over them while they thrashed about, desperate to cling to life.

It had been war. It had been hell. But no matter how hard it had been, it didn't seem to justify her cruelty, and now she paid for it. Most nights, even though she desperately tried to keep herself awake, she woke to Hermione shaking her, calling to her, her questions unanswered as Fleur clung to her wife, her ear pressed against her chest just to hear the proof of life under her.

She tried to keep these terrors from Hermione, from herself as much as possible, believing she needed more time to heal but ashamed to admit such thing. She took an unspecified leave of absence from her career as an Auror. The time away from the adrenaline-fueled job helped, certainly eased her triggers, but within a few weeks, the nightmares returned. She began to isolate herself, returned to work after a week spent staring at her ceiling, working in the records room of the Auror Office rather than the field.

Harry was shaken by this. Fleur was one of his strongest teammates, but even he could see how sunken her eyes were, how she flinched at loud noises, how the frenzy of pursuit did not make her come alive so much as it revived the monster she'd previously been. He commented quietly to Hermione, who had seen the change in her wife much earlier than he, but believed Fleur would come to her if she needed. The Veela was not one who enjoyed pity, and would much rather seek help after every other option had been exhausted first.

Hermione hadn't liked it. Several times, she'd tried to talk to her, get her to open up, but each time she felt like progress might have been made, Fleur would push away again, uncaring and oblivious to the hurt it brought her. At first, Hermione's kind and gentle offerings had seemed to help, but this was a weak antibiotic unfit for the raging infection plaguing Fleur. After several weeks of quiet dinners and sleepless nights, Hermione reached out again.

"I'm frightened," she confessed softly into the dark. "It's not like you to shut me out, though I can guess why you are. Let me help you, Fleur. I love you and I'm worried about you."

The Veela sighed and turned to face Hermione. "I'm sorry," she murmured back. "I don't know if you can help."

"You're hurt, Fleur. I'd rather clean and bandage a wound rather than ignore the fact that you're bleeding. If the wound needs stitches, I'd be happy to take you to a doctor to get them, but I cannot continue to act as though what happened, what's happening, isn't painful to watch or for you to bear alone." Her voice broke, and tears escaped her eyes. She made no move towards Fleur, and the Veela did not offer her an embrace. The lioness could not hold back her sobs as she waited for Fleur to move, to embrace her, as she was not offered respite.

"And," Hermione forced out, gritting her teeth. "I cannot continue to feel so lonely while I lay inches away from my wife."

Fleur shuddered and damned herself.

_How dare you? So self-absorbed you push away your own love! Your own wife! How much pain have you brought this poor creature? How can you ever repair it? You_ saw  _her lying dead that night! You see her lay dead in your dreams, but you can't even bring yourself to feel her warmth, to ease her ails as she so desperately tries to ease yours!_

Slowly, as if she was uncertain of her welcome, Fleur offered her arms. The lioness was quick to accept, but hesitance shone in her movements as she regarded Fleur's arms as an insect might regard a Venus plant. But, like the insect, she was drawn into Fleur's embrace, but unlike the insect, death did not come for her. She sobbed into Fleur's chest, while the Veela's tears wetted her hair. Apologies were exchanged and small acts of love were given to one another. Their hearts were sore, and even kisses left bruises.

The following week, Fleur found herself in an office full of buzzing white lights. She fiddled nervously with the hem of her blouse as she waited to be called, talking herself out of any plans of escape her mind threw to her. Half-convinced that a non-existent latex allergy was reason enough to sprint out of the building, her name was called.

Hermione had allowed her to make the appointment herself, and as she'd wished for a completely blank slate to judge her, had selected a Muggle counselor. It wasn't until she sat down that she realized her mistake.

Dr. Cameron was a balding man with tired, glazed eyes and a lazy, drawling voice.

"So, Mrs. Delacour-Granger, what can I do for you?"

Fleur balked for a moment, unsure of what to say.

"Forgive me," she murmured, "I've never done this before."

Dr. Cameron mumbled unintelligibly.

"How about we start with your symptoms?" he suggested.

Fleur squeezed her hands together. "I... I can't sleep at night."

"Are you having nightmares?"

"Yes," she admitted softly.

"What about?"

She contemplated telling him everything, but found she couldn't with so little trust, not to mention the fact that he was a Muggle. "I can't remember them. I just wake up sweaty and scared."

He took a moment to scribble in a notepad. "Go on."

"I'm anxious. I'm withdrawing from the people I care about."

"Do you have feelings of hopelessness or emptiness?"

"Yes."

"Anger or fear?"

"Yes."

"Thoughts of suicide?"

Fleur's heart skipped a beat. "No."

Dr. Cameron nodded smartly, scribbling away. "Well, Mrs. Delacour, I think I know how to help you." He spent the next few minutes scribbling in a different notepad before he ripped off several sheets of small, square papers. "These medicines should help. If not, come by again and we'll try something else." He rose, patted her shoulder, and held the door open for her.

She walked past him, silent and angry.

For several days, the prescriptions sat neglected and untouched, hidden in her wallet.

Then she hit one of her lowest lows. Whole stretches of her memory were left completely blank, while she hid in bed and stared at nothing in particular for hours. She had not the energy nor the drive to will herself out of bed, or even speak as her wife desperately tried to rouse her. This lasted for three days, until she finally returned to herself and spoke of her appointment with Dr. Cameron. Hermione learned of her prescriptions and filled them immediately, patient and gentle and unoffended if Fleur’s silence had tempted her anger or irritation.

Amitriptyline did not agree with her, and wrought even more nightmares. She'd awaken, sweating and crying and shaking, only conscious long enough to realize it had been a nightmare before the medicine knocked her unconscious again.

Valium was slightly more agreeable, though it was quickly replaced by Prozac, which left her vacant and lethargic. Klonopin soon followed, and provided the best mask. She felt better, but not whole. Fractured, but with no hint or token as to which pieces were missing or how to find them. But she hid from these thoughts of brokenness that dwelled beneath her conscious. She kept it from Hermione and she kept it from Dr. Cameron, desperate to be better and happy and enjoy the world as everyone else did around her.

Fleur returned to Auror work—after no small urging, Harry finally relented—and for a while, everything seemed to have gotten better. It wouldn't last, however. Their next target, had a habit of left trails of bodies behind them, torn and flayed and broken, both Magical and Muggle. Pure-blooded and bigoted, if she had to venture a guess. The victims were always the same: skinny, lanky males with dark mops of messy black hair and, more often than not, striking green eyes. Any one of them could have been Harry, and she'd thrown herself into tracking and decimating the person responsible.

She’d been more shaken by the modus operandi than Harry himself, who treated the whole matter with a professional, undaunted air.

She started distancing herself again, though this time out of paranoia. Harry knew she had been protective of him, had taken her oath of allegiance very seriously, sworn to him on the banks of Black Lake just after the Dumbledore died. But he hadn’t imagined she’d become so consumed by the need to uphold it. They’d discussed the matter, he released her from the oath, but it seemed futile. She held him in the same esteem as she did her sister, and refused to rest if she believed there was an imminent threat. He could scarcely fathom what might happen if she believed someone meant Hermione harm.

Harry took her off the case, shoved her back into the records room, but that didn't stop her completely. She still crept about various places of interest, traced motives, victims, methods, crime scenes, until Harry heard of this and put her on administrative leave once more. With no means to help find this bastard, she was left to her thoughts, and her nightmares returned, surging through the fragile plaster, utterly dependent on klonopin to give her some form of sanity.

 

 

*         *         *

 

 

She immediately noticed she wasn’t in her bedroom. She wasn’t even in her flat. Instead, she was in a narrow bed, alone, and clothed in a thin gown. A television softly played a game show at the foot of her bed, the wall behind it was stark white. To her left was a curtained window, the light slipping through the folds the mysterious light that had roused her. No other light shone, other than the natural sunlight from the window and that of the television, and slowly, her eyes adjusted to focus on what appeared to be a recliner to her right. A small bundle of blankets had been left there, looking very rumpled, as if the person who used them was anticipating their return shortly.

The Veela was pulled from her musing with a sharp pain in her head. She lifted a hand to her head, but was jerked short; she wore handcuffs on both wrists, chaining her to her bed. A needle protruded from her elbow, dripping saline into her bloodstream.

These were not reassuring to wake up to. Her heart rate spiked, and the monitor to her left labored to keep up with her as it started to sound. Her breath came faster, and the air was suddenly heavily perfumed with Hermione’s scent. The realization further spurred her into a frenzy. She pulled at her restraints, cried out wordlessly, felt nausea churning in her stomach.

The door opened, admitting a flood of light and a frantic orderly.

“Mrs. Delacour! Please, do try to calm yourself, I’ve been ordered not to sedate you.” The orderly bustled to her side, her hands gentle and cool on either side of Fleur’s sweating brow. “Deep breaths, nice and slow, and once you’re calm, I’ll call your friend, she’ll want to know you’re awake.”

That caught the Veela’s attention.

“My-my friend? Hermione?”

“Yes, Hermione. She said she wasn’t aware of any next-of-kin, so insisted we contact her once you woke.”

Fleur balked, her breathing halted.

“Where am I?” she managed at last.

“Saint Abigail’s Trauma Center,” the orderly supplied.

Fleur relaxed slightly. A Muggle hospital. That at least explained why Hermione was merely a ‘friend’ though it didn’t ease her completely. She clutched at the bedsheets, out of the orderly’s sight, and was rewarded with a smart nod of approval once her monitor quieted.

“Good. I’ll go fetch your doctor and let Hermione know you’re awake if I see her in the tearoom.

Fleur relaxed further, though her hands remained clenched. As soon as the orderly left and the door clicked closed behind her, hysteria broke through. Her hands itched, her head ached, sobs wracked her tired, sore body. Minutes later, Hermione burst in. She ran for Fleur, throwing her arms towards her before she thought better of it. She slowed her advance, and approached slowly, her hands gently cupping her wife’s waxen, tear-stained face.

“Fleur,” she whispered, her eyes flicking between the Veela’s own.

For a long, silent minute, they simply stared at one another, tears running tracks down their cheeks.

“Am I okay?” Fleur finally whispered. “What happened?”

Hermione worried her lip for a moment, looking away to wipe at her eyes. “You… woke up in the middle of the night. Took several pills… the doctor says we can’t be sure how many…”

Fleur blinked. She couldn’t remember anything.

“They, ah, they pumped your stomach, you see,” Hermione continued, clearing her throat. “You’re to drink lots of water,”

“That would be lovely, if you could,”

Hermione nodded, grateful for the task, and helped Fleur sip at cool, not cold, water. Her throat burned, but the water was nice and soothing. Fleur thanked her as she pulled away, and rested fully against her pillows.

Hermione did not sit, just stood and looked at Fleur, and worried her hands. She was nervous; eggshells crunched beneath her feet. 

“I’m sorry,” Fleur finally murmured, feeling very small. “As feeble as it might be, I had not intended to overdose. I can’t even remember anything about that night. I remember dinner, though vaguely. That’s all. I never wanted to hurt you or worry you. Or hurt me, for that matter,”

They fell silent as a knock sounded from the door, and opened a moment later to admit the doctor overseeing Fleur. He checked vitals, took notes, and gave instructions to Fleur and Hermione on how best to proceed, and advised them to stay another day in the hospital. Fleur did not feel it was necessary and was very ready to return home, but Hermione was resolute and demanded she stay one more day. She gave in under the circumstance that the handcuffs be removed.

In time, they discussed more of what had led to the accidental overdose. Fleur told her of the nightmares, of the memories she couldn’t quite tell if she actually remembered them from experience or if they were leftovers form her worst dreams. She told her of the failed sessions with Dr. Cameron, and how hopeless she’d felt in his presence. She told her about the case she’d been working, all those men who could have been Harry, how she’d become obsessed with it. She told her how guilty she felt, simply by needing more than everyone else seemed to, how behind she seemed to be.

Hermione listened carefully, never once letting go of Fleur’s hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked softly.

Fleur looked away. “I… I didn’t want to worry you. I didn’t want to worry anyone. It’s been so long, and everyone else is doing so well, I felt like I should have been right there with them. I wanted to believe I actually was. But I wasn’t, obviously, and now everyone knows.”

Hermione shook her head gently. “No, love. Very few people know.”

The Veela looked at her curiously.

“You’re in a Muggle hospital. I figured first, since you were seeing a Muggle therapist and taking Muggle drugs, Muggle doctors and nurses would know best how to help you. It also gave the cover of privacy, although our marriage isn’t…looked upon here. A bit of legilimency might have helped,” she added quietly, flushing slightly. “But you’re entitled to heal at your own pace, Fleur. You deserve that.” She paused to take a great breath, locking her eyes firmly on her wife’s. “I have a proposition to make.”

The Veela regarded her carefully. “And what is that?”

“Let me book an appointment with a new therapist. From everything you’ve told me, Dr. Cameron was rotten and didn’t care much for fixing the root problems. If I may venture a guess, it seems like you have PTSD and depression and anxiety are symptoms from that. It sounds like he was attempting to treat those issues as separate entities detached from the PTSD, and then further did you a disservice by largely ignoring your need to heal.” She shook her head. “I think I know someone who could help, if you’ll let me help you.”

Fleur shifted uncertainly on her bed, biting her lip. “What if I don’t like them?”

“We’ll try other things,” Hermione murmured. “We’ll work together. You’re not alone, Fleur. You’ll never be alone again.”

Fleur met her eyes, fresh tears welling in them, and nodded solemnly, her heartbeat uneven in her breast.

  

          *         *         *

 

The Veela sat across from a woman in her early thirties. She had a kind smile, dark eyes, and long, glossy hair the color of a raven’s wing. A pad of empty prescriptions was nowhere to be seen, and this room was softly lit by electric lamps, but also boasted art of oil pastels and vases filled with fresh flowers, giving the room a sweet, light scent. An aquarium bubbled quietly from one corner, housing a small community of brightly-colored fish.

Miss Sarah, as she’d insisted on being called, leaned toward Fleur slightly, and drew a breath.

“I’m glad you came in,” she began softly. “Your wife was very worried about you, and thought I might be able to help. The thing is, you must want help, you must be willing to allow me to help. I don’t expect this to be easy, considering the circumstances, but we’ll be moving at your pace. Do you have any questions for me?”

 The Veela considered silently for a moment. “Have you worked with my wife?”

“No. I’ve met her, but I’ve never seen her as a patient.”

Fleur nodded. “What do you know about me?”

Miss Sarah thought for a moment, carefully selecting her words. “I know you’re sick, and I know you want to get better. I know you have a loving family who offers their support. I know you and Hermione come from… another world, if you will.”

Fleur’s head snapped up. Miss Sarah was smiling gently at her, though her smile was knowing. The Veela stood sharply, anger clear on her features.

“Tell me just what you mean by ‘another world?’” she whispered.

Sarah stood as well, her smile gone. “It’s not what you think, Fleur. I’m a Squib; I’ve been kept separate from the Wizarding World my whole life. I know nothing of the war other than the fact that there was one and the Dark One is dead. I know nothing of your part in it.”

Fleur was breathing rapidly. She’d wanted a blank slate. She’d wanted no bias to cloud judgment as she spilled out what she held in.

“Hermione told me what you needed,” Sarah said softly. “She said you needed an unbiased ear. But you can’t speak of a Wizard war with a Muggle and if you can’t be honest with your therapist, we can only do so much. I’m the best chance you’ve got. Please sit, and let me earn your trust. Believe my ignorance. I want to help you.” She paused, dark eyes silently imploring Fleur to consider.

The Veela flexed her hands, clenching and releasing, until her breathing had calmed. “Hermione specifically sought out you?”

“Yes. Her own counselor has a similar situation as mine.”

“And you know nothing of our past?”

“Only what she’s told me, which I’ve informed you of.”

“Do you know what a Veela is?”

The reply came soft and uncertain. “No,”

Fleur sighed heavily and took her seat again. “I am a Veela. I cannot share all our secrets, but you must know some.”

And so she told her. It gradually became easier to speak freely, sharing fond memories of the early days of the relation with Hermione. It quickly darkened, however, when the war began anew and took Hermione from her.

“We were at a wedding,” she said softly. “Two of our dearest friends and mentors, both lost in the final battle. She’d been acting strangely for months, though she was skilled at hiding it. I didn’t notice until it was too late.” She stopped for a moment, rubbing her face. “Looking back, it’s obvious. Her entire demeanor had changed, though she took great measures to keep it hidden. But she left me a letter, telling me she didn’t love me anymore. That she’d changed her mind. So, I did the only thing I knew to do. I went to my grandmother’s village, showed her the letter. She knew, of course, knew the truth, but I couldn’t know that. I had to give up my humanity, I had to become Veela.”

“Were you not before?” Miss Sarah asked quietly. “Was Hermione not Veela after she accepted you?”

“Yes, but in a different sense. I was born with the soul and blood of a quarter-Veela, Hermione received half in the form a soul, my soul, as it was bound to her when she accepted me. Being  _born_ with Veela blood and  _becoming_ a Veela are two different things. To  _become_ one must return to the primitive state, through either pain as the First Mother did, or the strongest discipline, as tribe leaders and high priestesses—or to accept a Veela for a mate if the person in question is human. The total release of human thought, perception, and instinct, the release of so many centuries’ worth of evolution and return to the original, pre-evolved form. To willingly face death, knowing that the Mothers will only allow the best and strongest to return to life.”

Fleur paused and drew a breath.

“Honestly, I don’t remember much about my time in the forest. I remember when I died, but not much before that.”

“You died?”

Fleur nodded. “As I mentioned earlier, it’s not uncommon during such practice, though I went without the intention of becoming a tribal leader. I went with the intent to die without a chance of returning. Obviously, the Mothers had other plans. What better way is there to return to the animal? What better way to lose your humanity? What better way to fully embrace that dark, primal past than to die and return?”

“Almost like the phoenix.”

The Veela hummed softly as she considered. “Not quite. Sacrifices, exchanges, currencies. I gave up a life in order to obtain a new one, though I didn’t know I would receive it. I only thought I was dying. I had no intention of coming back.”

“But you did, when you shouldn’t have. How? Why?”

The Veela inhaled deeply. “Hermione sacrificed, too.”

“What sacrifice was that?”

“Me.” She answered softly. “Hermione could have asked me to accompany her, could have broken her confidence with Harry and Dumbledore, but she broke it with me instead. She risked losing me completely, actually did for a time, though that bit was unintentional. She risked losing herself with the gamble, as well. She’d meant only to send me away, like she did her parents, then realized it might have killed me, so she sacrificed blood as well. That was the night I returned.”

Miss Sarah considered silently for a time. “Do you have any memories from that time you’d like to share?”

Fleur bit her lip. “I… it’s hard to articulate them.”

Sarah smiled kindly and nodded. “These things take time. You should be proud of yourself, Fleur; you’ve done very well. I’m going to ask something of you, if you would humor me for a moment,” she got to her feet, the Veela wearily watching her. She went to a cabinet and dug through it for a moment.

“Blue, red, orange, purple, green, or yellow?”

“Pardon?”

“Which two of these most catches your fancy?”

Fleur considered for a moment. “Um, yellow and green, I suppose.”

Miss Sarah returned to her seat, and presented Fleur with two spiral-bound notebooks, one yellow and one green.

“I’d like you to keep journals, Fleur. Start to get to know yourself again. A place to record your thoughts when they invade, and hopefully make them easier to articulate. Let me be clear,” she said, her tone dropping. “I do expect to read something in our next session, and let me be doubly clear, this is not a place to record stories you think I’d like to hear. If it happens to be integral to the thought at hand, and  _you_  want to re-examine, by all means, include what you wish to examine. But do not write an autobiography. If I need elaboration, I’ll ask for it, but I’d much rather get to know you through this,” she gestured between the two of them. “but this,” she held the yellow notebook aloft. “Will allow me to see as you do. Now, I said I expected to read something in our next session, and I do, however, only what you’re willing to share. If you please, keep one notebook for me, and the other strictly for you. Record the darker things, things you need to get out but might not be ready to share yet in one of these, while other, more easily sharable things may go into the other.”

“So, two notebooks, one for the two of us to share, and one for me alone?”

“If you feel like I should know something out of the other notebook, a nightmare, a bad memory, the desire to take pills, those sorts of things you’re still very raw and guarded on, I’ll be happy to oblige; or if you’d rather keep them entirely to yourself that’s perfectly fine as well. Just as long as they get out of your head, as long as they’re acknowledged. I understand how daunting of a task this can be to begin with. Think of it was a way to communicate with yourself and a way to log patterns of thought. Record happy things, too,” she finished, offering the notebooks to Fleur.

“Hermione has one,” the Veela murmured, taking them.

Miss Sarah smiled and nodded. “I figured she would. Now, before we wrap this up, I would like to say this. I know your feelings on medication are not favorable at the time, and for good reason. We don’t have to try if you don’t want to, however, if you do, we will start very, very small. That option is still open to you. Other than that, there are other methods we can try, at your leisure and comfort. Is that okay?”

Fleur considered silently. “You’re not writing any prescriptions for me?”

Sarah studied her carefully and finally asked, “Do you want me to?”

The question wasn’t asked with any expectation, she was simply looking for an honest opinion. The Veela’s stomach clenched. She was terrified. After what had happened, what was so close, she might never again take as much as an aspirin for a headache.

“No,” she said at last. “No, I don’t want medication right now.”

Miss Sarah’s face was perfectly neutral and betrayed no bias or judgment. “Okay, Fleur. If there’s nothing else you’d like to discuss, you’re free to take your leave and I’ll see you next week. Is there anything else?”

The Veela shook her head, smiling a small smile. “No, not at the moment. Thank you, Miss Sarah.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Fleur. Thank you for trusting me.” She smiled again, and was genuinely pleased when it was returned fully. 

 The next week passed rather quickly, and Fleur found herself anxious to see Miss Sarah again. She’d taken what she said to heart, though it was quite difficult at first. Her green notebook, dubbed the “secret” notebook, was filling rapidly. Still on administrative leave, her days were spent more or less confined to the house by her own will and that left ample time to think and write. The Veela practiced writing, at first only able to articulate very specific thoughts and the instinctive panic reactions to them, but soon found she could trace thought patterns.

As she became more articulate, she feared her own mind less. Having a physical outlet lightened her mental strain, and sleep was beginning to come easier. Hermione watched from a distance, still wary of accidentally startling her wife but also proud of the progress she’d made so far.

As Fleur continued to see Miss Sarah, she began to come back to herself. She’d been recommended to go back on klonopin, at a much lower dosage than before, and was struggling with the decision. She wasn’t addicted when she’d overdosed, rather, she craved the false security it had given her. Now, she realized and understood that it hadn’t been a false security; it had simply blocked the neurotransmitter responsible for feelings of anxiety. Now, she felt better about her paranoia, the fact that Harry had intercepted and neutralized the wizard behind the killings helped tremendously in that regard, but some days she was still jumpy and easy to startle especially if she wandered into the darker recesses of her mind and memory.

Miss Sarah was patient, however, and eventually, Fleur agreed to try again. Paired with the writing exercises and calming rituals, the medication helped ease the lingering fear. At this dosage, she was still capable of experiencing anxiety, but it no longer kept her confined to the house. She returned to work, though she remained in the records room. The Veela hated the idea, but knew deep in her soul she was never meant to set foot in the field again.

Harry was very kind and understanding, sad to see his team suffer such a loss but he valued Fleur’s well-being more. He loved her, and would have refused her if she’d asked to help him hunt down the latest criminal.

It irked her, somewhat, thinking of all the study and practice and heartache that had gone into her Auror education. They were valuable skills and had certainly earned her a name for herself, but part of her was saddened that wouldn’t be used as her mentors had intended. Even so, she was still approached for advice and guidance, and willingly imparted her knowledge to anyone who had a question.

It also made her feel more like herself again, too. During her time in school, she’d taken every lesson with the understanding they’d be of utmost importance upon graduating. To her dismay, adulthood proved to be far more reliant on experience and tact rather than test scores, but to feel sad for having skills go unused was very much like her younger self, and she felt as though she’d been reunited with an old friend.

Hermione had noticed, too, though she was still quite wary around her wife. During quiet breakfasts, she’d watch her over her teacup, bent over her yellow notebook which was becoming an increasingly frequent companion. Soon, she began sharing her notebooks with Hermione, allowing the very darkest and most closely guarded secrets to be examined by her.

At first, Hermione had been hesitant. The yellow notebook was easy; some parts hinted at a darker story than Fleur let on, probably further explored in the green notebook. Still, it was terrifying and difficult to behold. Fleur had endured terrible suffering, the weight of it was easy to perceive though Hermione doubted she understood its full magnitude. Fleur had truly felt alone and isolated, floating adrift in a sea of uncertainty and fear at what she had become, worried that the monster she’d been would come surging back.

Hermione never read the whole yellow notebook, and never was invited to read the green one. She suspected the green one contained closely examined nightmares and memories, and honestly had no desire to tread into something so intimate and fragile. She was thankful Fleur seemed to share this notion, but allowed parts of her own closely guarded notebook to be read, once she was comfortable with the idea of allowing the rawest, ugliest parts of herself to be laid bare to Fleur.

This sharing allowed a deeper understanding between the two. It allowed communication to grow, fundamental to healing the damage done to them. Gradually, the eggshells strewn about their home were swept away. They rediscovered one another, their scars and wounds no longer shameful and hidden, but well-known by the other. They understood triggers and sensitivities, helped one another through days as fragile as sandcastles at high tide. For Fleur, it had been comforting to know that Hermione had demons to fight, too, that she was not alone, though she was saddened her mate had to face any at all.

Finally, it seemed as though the Veela had truly begun to heal. She slept through the night, delighted in Hermione’s love, and could leave her home feeling safe. Some days were hard, but she’d learned how to live again.

The time soon came and she left the Auror office completely. St. Mungo’s was quick to hire her on, and she flourished as an apprentice Healer. Hermione continued to work at the Ministry, her eye set on becoming Minister one day, and was delighted to see several old pupils from her time teaching take positions under her.

 

One night, the two lay together, candlelight painting skin and hair in seductive tones and shadows. Fleur brought her hand up to cup Hermione’s cheek, marveling in the sweet, soft warmth she found there. Hermione’s exhales were gentle against her, her eyes soft as she lovingly studied her mate.

Though fully clothed, she felt as though they’d already made love and lay basking in the afterglow, so deeply she admired the woman by her side. She found herself aching, and pressed a tender kiss to Fleur’s lips. The Veela responded as though she had all the time in the world, eternities to spend memorizing and worshipping her mate, and Hermione keenly felt her heart begin to thump as though she were being kissed for the first time all over again.   

The Veela’s intrepid hands found her ribcage, and Hermione mustered all her strength to clasp the Veela’s hands in her own and pull her away.

“Fleur,” she murmured, nearly breathless. Her wife’s eyes were dark as they met her own, curious and playful. “I… I have to ask you something.”

Fleur regarded to carefully, her mouth tugging up on one side. “Ask anything.”

Hermione bit her lip, and shifted her gaze briefly. “I think we should… I think I want…”

Panic and concern briefly flitted over the Veela’s features, though she remained silent and allowed Hermione the chance to collect herself.

“I think I want a baby.” She admitted, meeting Fleur’s eyes once more. She could nearly swear she felt other witch’s heart stutter against her side, certainly felt the rush of heat that signaled her blush.

“You… you want a baby?” She finally managed, astounded. “With me?”

Hermione barked a laugh, disbelief knocking her for a moment. “Exactly with who else, silly?”

Fleur smiled fully then, color high on her cheeks and her eyes shining. They darkened suddenly, and Hermione longed to know precisely what thought was to blame.

“Are… are you sure we’re ready? Are you sure  _I’m_ ready?”

“Well,  _I_ certainly can’t tell you if you’re ready, but I’ve been thinking about this for a while, Fleur,” Hermione murmured, now cupping the blonde’s face gently. “It’s been nearly three years since your accident, we’ve both been released from the therapy programs we were in having made tremendous progress, we’re in a good spot financially…” she paused. “Please, think about it. I know you’re worried, but I truly believe we’re ready… if you don’t feel the same, I understand. This is a big thing,” she laughed gently.   

Fleur snorted. “Yeah, it is pretty big, huh?”

Hermione leaned in and bumped Fleur’s chin with her nose. “It is. We don’t have to commit to anything tonight. But I would like to seriously consider it.”

Fleur drew a breath, and nuzzled into Hermione’s hair, deeply breathing her in. She pressed a kiss to her temple, smiling slightly. The thought of a child pleased her greatly, but she knew better than to make a decision so large so quickly. Instead, she focused solely on her wife, bringing her pleasure as only she knew how.

Later, as Hermione lay peaceful and sated, Fleur kept watch over her. Their quilt had long ago been lost to the floor, their bodies covered by the sheet. Hermione’s skin still held glimmers of sweat in the dim light, her back bore marks left by nails and teeth. Fleur was sure hers looked similarly; they’d both been rather rough with one another, and now left her feeling a pleasant ache whenever she moved.

The Veela lifted a gentle hand and caressed her lover’s shoulder, reveling in the heat there. Hermione mumbled softly in appreciation, and Fleur continued to stroke her, smiling as goosebumps rose in her wake. The lioness shivered once and was still, a long sigh signaling her succumbing to sleep.

_A baby…_ Fleur thought as she settled, having retrieved the quilt and extinguished the candles. She fell asleep with her arms wrapped snuggly around Hermione, smiling into the darkness.


End file.
